Being Here
by sarapals with past50
Summary: Sara continues to work in Vegas, Grissom has a thriving consulting business, and they are together more often than not. A little murder, a little surprise, even the first Mrs. Grissom makes an appearance! GSR, fluff, our attempt at humor-enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Of course we do not own these characters, just having a bit of fun. Enjoy! Keep reading, review, let us know what you think!_

**Being Here**

**Chapter 1**

It always surprised him to find such darkness less than ten minutes from bright city lights, but the man knew where he was going. He had driven along the stretch of highway for years; remote because it was federal land, dark because of the surrounding foothills, and isolated because the water level of Lake Mead had dropped so much in recent years. He slowed as he came to a short straight-way and stopped in the road, listening to the surrounding silence for a minute before he stepped out of the car.

The bundle he lifted caused the man to stagger, not from its weight but from the awkwardness of having to bend into the trunk and lift it out. She could not weigh more than 115 pounds, he thought, as he managed to heft the body over his shoulder. He chuckled as he dropped the tightly wrapped body over the concrete barrier along the highway. He had used cheap plastic bags and duct tape—throwing what he did not use into two dumpsters as he drove to Lake Mead.

In the darkness, he saw the flash of pale skin as plastic was torn away by the rocks, but at this point he did not care what happened to the body. His car was clean—no blood or other trace would be found to tie him to the dead girl. His thoughts caused him to grin. His wife watched crime shows all night and half the day and he had to listen to her constant chatter about how to kill someone.

Heck, he thought, he should have killed her too.

All the other items, none of them cheap, he had enjoyed with the dead woman were scattered across town in the same way he had disposed of the trash bags and tape. Unless some investigator wanted to spend a week at the city dump, none of it would ever be found. And, if he were lucky, the body would not be found for weeks. By that time, he would have her place, which he owned, cleaned and rented to the next girl who would willingly be his fantasy partner.

He glanced over the barrier again and in the darkness, saw nothing. If he recollected correctly, this stretch of roadside was steep, overgrown with weeds, and at the dry lakebed, scrub bushes had sprouted in a low-growing carpet of thorny growth. No one would find this body for months—even years, if ever. Served the bitch right, he thought. As he drove away from his brief stop, he mumbled, "A million dollars for a whore, that's expensive."

"Are you sure?"

The doctor smiled and patted her hand. "It is a surprise, isn't it? Where's your husband?"

Sara Sidle's face broke into a wide grin. "He's at home. You're sure about this?"

"Very. Ten weeks at least, maybe twelve. Make another appointment, get your lab work done, and we'll do more testing." The woman flipped several pages in the chart. "At your age, we usually do genetic testing and amniocentesis—I recommend it so parents have as much information as possible."

Sara nodded but said nothing. She had heard all of this months ago when she and Grissom sat in this doctor's office discussing fertility and options for infertility and tests and treatments. All of which they had decided against after initial tests confirmed she was ovulating and Grissom's sperm count was within normal range—actually at the upper levels for a man his age. The doctor's advice had been "have more sex" which led to Grissom's decision to remain close to home.

"Are you going to be okay?" The doctor said as she handed several brochures to Sara. "I know you'll read everything you can, and here's a few standard 'Having a baby' kind of things."

Sara's eyes met the doctor's. "I can't believe it—I thought—I thought I was going into menopause—missed periods, feeling—not feeling right. And now I'm pregnant."

The physician leaned against the desk. "Well, there was never a reason you couldn't get pregnant—you just didn't—until now. Sometimes that's how it happens." She stretched her hand toward Sara. "Congratulations—I wish I could see your husband when you tell him!"

Driving home, Sara's mind seemed to replay the doctor's words over and over. She was pregnant—"you're pregnant"—"having a baby". She could not quite wrap her brain around those few words.

She walked into the quiet house and followed a familiar path from kitchen to the door of their home office. For several moments she watched her husband working, his head bent over a framed insect display. Months ago he suggested this small room would become a nursery, but recently, with no prospect of a baby, their talk of nursery and names had stopped. She leaned against the door frame and quietly said:

"I'm pregnant."

A few seconds passed before he lifted his head and pushed back his chair.

He frowned. "What? What did you say?" Not that his hearing had diminished, but he had been concentrating so much on his work, he was certain he had not heard her words. He rolled away from the desk. His beautiful wife appeared to be in a daze as she leaned against the doorway, the slightest smile on her face. "Say again," he said as he rolled his chair toward her.

Sara's brown eyes met his. She said "I—I'm pregnant, Gil."

A smile formed across his face; he reached for her hands. "You're pregnant? You're sure—the doctor checked everything?" His hands found hers and slowly moved along her arms. "Pregnant? I don't believe it—yes—yes, I do believe it!" He corrected himself, quickly realizing the look on her face was one of surprise at the extraordinariness of what she had said. She came willingly as he pulled her into his chair.

She had always been able to fit within his arms, sitting, standing, stretched beside him on a bed or a cot or in a tent, and today she slipped comfortably into his lap and arms.

"I think I'm in shock," she said. "I fully expected her to tell me I was going into early menopause—I really did!" She chuckled as his hand caressed her neck. "I'll be the oldest mom in first grade."

"Well," Grissom said quietly, "I'll certainly be the oldest dad at graduation." He gently touched her forehead with his lips. "You okay with this? We talked about it quite a bit then we stopped talking."

"I am—still surprised—I had decided it wasn't going to happen—not sure what to do next."

"Tell my mother," Grissom said with a chuckle. "She's always asking."

It was Sara's turn to laugh. "I see her signing to you—like I can't understand what it is she's saying." She sat up, turning to put arms around his neck, a concerned frown on her face. "But we need to wait, Gil. A lot of things can happen—a few more weeks, some testing and we'll know—you know—more." She kissed him and grinned. "You won't tell, promise?"

He made the promise in a voice as seductive as moonlight on dark water.

_A/N: As you can see, we thought Mama Grissom was perfect and deserved to enter into our fanfiction! Thanks for reading-and reviews get the next chapter to you quickly! _


	2. Chapter 2

**Being Here Chapter 2**

The wrapped body tumbled against rocks, became airborne at one point, and snagged on a thorny bush which tore a foot long gash in the plastic covering. Several more bounces and the body landed on the dry lake bed where it rolled to a stop in the tall weeds that flourished along the edge of the rocky bank. Within seconds all was quiet again; the only sound was that of an expensive automobile making a turn on the highway and heading into the city.

The girl had been dead nearly four hours by the time she landed; rigor mortis had set in but another eight hours would pass before she reached full stiffness. Her blood had pooled as she lay on the floor of her kitchen, shifted in the car trunk, and was settling for the third time to the low points of her body after coming to rest after its haphazard roll. A few insects arrived quickly but left without touching the body. It would be two days before blowflies found flesh but even with cells rupturing, skin breaking open, the flies would not immediately go to work laying eggs. Because the killer had remembered one more thing about killing—he had doused the body with insect repellent to slow insect activity and make the time of death hard to establish—it would be more days before blowflies, flesh flies, beetles, and wasps showed up to continue the process of decomposition.

The man who had dumped the body, who had used an expensive candlestick to deliver the killing blow, was back in Las Vegas and entering the gated community where he lived with his wife, without a second thought to the dead girl. He had called a clean-up crew for the small house he owned on San Francisco Street and requested the house be emptied of all its contents before the painters arrived at noon. He knew a quick trip through several casinos tomorrow night would find another beautiful girl who would be thrilled to have her own place and, in a few weeks, be willing to play certain games with him. This time he would set clear rules—no whore was worth a million dollars.

# # #

Grissom's mouth came to hers as warm and excited, tender and affectionate at once, sending Sara's senses into overdrive as the sensation of intimacy unfurled within some hidden part of her body. She heard a soft, urgent sound as though he, too, had been caught off guard by the sudden flare of desire.

"I knew it would happen," he said against her mouth. And they both rose from the chair and walked as one to the bedroom.

One by one Grissom undid the small buttons of her shirt; his fingers brushed across one nipple as he unhooked her bra. When she reached for his shirt, he gently captured her fingers.

"I'll take care of this," he said, sounding amused as he continued to undress her. In a matter of minutes he had darkened the room, removed his own shirt, and unfastened her jeans. Any uncertainty about his reaction to her announcement was quickly dissipated by his actions—he had removed each item of her clothing, even her shoes, with great care, and when he finished, he closed his hands around her thighs and kissed the bare skin across her abdomen. By the time he pushed his pants to the floor, he had pulled her tightly to him and kissed her with such slow intensity, she could feel him willing her to respond in the same way.

Cradling her face in his hands, he said "Tell me you are happy."

"I am—truly I am," she said softly. She smiled before she kissed him gently and quickly on his lips, then again on his chin.

He half laughed, half groaned and stopped her movement with a deep, intense kiss. When he finally lifted his mouth from hers, he said, "I am very happy—and I'm also scared. Do you think all new dads feel this way?" His soft laughter flowed and ruffled around her as he pushed covers aside and pulled her into their bed. His hands stroked her slowly, along the contours of her shoulder, down her back and around to her chest. His fingers found the uplift of her breast and, gently, he moved his thumb over her nipple. He kissed her neck, her ear, her lips, all the while maneuvering his knee between her legs.

Sara had been put on earth to love this man, she thought. At times she had been overwhelmed by her feelings for Gilbert Grissom—from their first encounter she had known something special had connected them. For a while she tried to insist, to herself as she would never discuss these thoughts with anyone else, their link had been a connection of intelligence, of their mutual interest in all things scientific. But in reality only the strongest emotions, passion—she realized—were capable of generating what she felt for this man who was slowly undressing her. Each time he removed a piece of her clothing, his hands touched her in such a gentle manner she knew he did so to enhance the physical act of lovemaking.

The same hand that caressed her nipple moved between her legs; Sara heard the sound of pleasure in his voice when he made a satisfied "ahhh" sound as his fingers worked into her feminine folds, sliding gently back and forth. She opened her mouth to say something but he silenced her quickly with a kiss. In seconds, she was twisting against his palm as his fingers moved inside her. Tremors moved across her pelvis, and as he felt the quiver beginning, he moved, settling on top of her, guiding himself to her with his hand. Gently, lovingly, he began to push into her, but suddenly came to a jarring stop. He froze, nearly buried deep within her, and looked down at her wide eyes while braced on his elbows.

"Sara—should we—is this okay?" His words sounded half-strangled in his throat.

She pressed fingers into his back and shoulders. "If you stop now, I'll never forgive you, Gil Grissom," she murmured. He heard the whisper of a soft giggle. "Of course its okay." She lifted her hips and he sank himself completely into her. As the force and tempo of his movements increased, so did the arousing desire in both. Sara was the first to climax as her back arched, her body tightened, and the astonishing release of passion sent a rush of waves through her body. He followed her within minutes as she held him and his breathing became forceful pants until he collapsed on top of her. Sated and unmoving, he lay quietly for some time as he felt a chill on his back side, a wonderful warmth where his skin met Sara's, and his breathing returned to normal.

Carefully, slowly, he shifted his weight to an elbow and a knee. "Sorry," he whispered. "I got carried away." His hand moved to her abdomen. "We didn't do any harm, did we? Are you all right?" His hand stopped and he spread his fingers from the crest of her hip to her pubic arch. He grinned, leaned over and kissed her. "Sara, we've made a baby—right here—in this bed." He kissed her again and again until both were laughing.

He whispered, "You are a beautiful woman, Sara." His fingers touched the depression of her throat, moved downward to cup her breast. As he lightly drew circled on her skin, he thought it might be inappropriate but a hunger was building inside him and it wasn't for food.

Sara smiled, threading her fingers through his hair as she pulled his face to her chest so his chin touched a breast. He breathed deeply. She had no idea of the effect she had on him. She had ignored his questions and placed a hand over his. "Will you always be this passionate, dear?"

"Yes," he mumbled as he kissed her again.

She rolled to her side, facing him, placing a leg over his hip. She knew, she could read his mind with an intuition that sometimes caused concern—she knew when desire continued to burn inside him and made herself open to him.

"We're not going to harm anything, Gil. This is how we got in this condition—lots of sex." She grinned, mischievously as she circled arms around his neck and began to kiss him. He pulled her into his arms as the afternoon closed around them. For the second time today, he ran fingers down her spine, around her butt, feeling her smooth bare skin as she touched him in intimate ways and he responded.

Some time later Sara woke to muted light coming around the drawn blinds, still entangled in arms and legs belonging to her husband. When she stirred, he held her tightly and in a lazy, satisfied way, said, "Stay here for a while—I'm dreaming of you."

"You are day dreaming, dear, if you are awake."

He silenced her with a quick kiss and when he raised his head she knew he was happy, satisfied. He traced his thumb along her jaw to her chin. He smiled—an intimate, seductive one reserved only for her eyes. "You stay here and rest—I'll bring food." He caught her glance toward the bedside table. "You have several hours—stay, go back to sleep."

Reluctantly, he untangled himself and rolled to his feet, found his pants and said, "Stay in bed—you are now an expectant mother and…" his words stopped and he made a face. "I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do," he held up one finger, "but feed you—that I can do." Satisfied with what he had said, he turned and left the room.

Sara stretched, took a deep breath, punched her pillow, and did as he had instructed. She had time for a shower before work, after she ate, after they talked. She had continued to work three shifts a week after Grissom decided to stay closer to home. He also had a consulting contract with the states of Nevada, Utah and Arizona—almost any case involving insects, he was called and sometimes he went to the scene. Plus he had a small research grant associated with the university.

She propped up pillows and thought about pregnancy—or specifically who she needed to tell at work before deciding she would not tell anyone until later. She giggled into her pillow as she remembered hearing what everyone in the lab thought of their marriage—Hodges had spilled all of it months ago when Grissom was in Peru and a former girlfriend has surfaced as a suspect in a murder. She had laughed until she cried as she related the story to Grissom. And he had been more than a little chagrined at Hodges account of the supposed sexual prowess of Gil Grissom. The ex-girlfriend required another embarrassed explanation; Grissom was more annoyed by Julia's portrayal of their brief encounter than of Hodges sordid gossip.

"I have never—ever—talked to Hodges about you or anything else concerning our private lives," Grissom declared. "And Julia was a girlfriend of two weeks—she and my mother—well, you know that part of 'our' relationship."

Sara had teased, "What about Lady Heather?"

He shook his head. "You know the truth; Hodges doesn't. Catherine doesn't. Just you."

She was laughing as she found her panties and pulled Grissom's shirt over her head before he returned with two sandwiches, plates carefully balanced in his hands along with a tall glass of milk.

"You need to eat more, dear." He handed her the milk and the plate holding a sandwich, fresh fruit, and two large cookies.

They settled together, eating in bed, and talked.

"I'm not going to tell anyone at work until I go back for my next appointment," Sara said.

His eyebrow lifted. "Is that wise?" Then nodded in agreement. "I understand, but nothing will happen—our baby's strong—she'll be like her mother."

The "boy" or "girl" discussion took on a life as they teased and laughed about the merits of male and female children. Insisting gender did not matter, Grissom secretly hoped for a girl while Sara wished for a boy, and both prayed for a healthy baby.

"You know, I've got that seminar in Flagstaff next week and you could go with me." He suggested as he finished the last bite of fruit from her plate. "We could drive to the Grand Canyon—we haven't been out there in a decade."

Plates placed to one side, Sara rolled over to capture him with legs and arms. "I'd like to see the Grand Canyon again. Can we spend the night? See the sunset and the sunrise?"

He grunted agreement, kissing her with a zeal that surprised her. After several minutes, Sara mumbled, "I gotta go to work, Gil!"

A/N: _Enjoy! Review, please! _


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Another chapter, keep reading, review, please!_

**Being Here Chapter 3**

Sara loved her work—it was not the most conventional, not an eight-to-five schedule, but she felt an accomplishment when a case closed. She no longer got as involved with certain cases as she once did—months with a good therapist had helped, and marriage had created a new attitude she had never imagined. She could not define this to anyone, not scientifically, but in her mind, she knew it had something to do with the affirmation, clear and certain, that her husband loved her for who she was—warts, wrinkles, foolish thoughts, crazy mother, and everything else that arrived with her.

In turn, she loved him for who he was and what he wanted to do. She gave him space, supported his desire to travel, and kept his dog happy. No matter how far he trekked, he always returned to her, and months ago, when he made the decision to stay at home so they could follow "doctor's orders" he had been the most optimistic, the one most convinced of a positive outcome.

Her thoughts brought a blush to her cheeks. She knew certain people in the lab watched her closely and added their new thoughts to years' old gossip. She took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. She dealt with rumors and gossip, chitchat and tales in the same way—ignoring most of it. Nick, Greg, and Ray were waiting for her, disguised as a break before shift started, but as soon as she arrived, Greg's good-natured teasing started, asking if her husband had prepared the meal she tucked into the refrigerator. She smirked as an answer.

Nick had his fist closed on a few pieces of paper—assignments—the number was a good indication that no big case required all of them on one scene tonight. The new 'girl' was last to show up; Greg showed a growing interest in her and, as a reward, Nick handed them the first assignment.

"Burned out car in Koreatown—body still inside it." He waved the folder to Greg then switched it to Caroline. "Here, lead this guy in the right direction—I'd suggest overalls."

The next went to Langston. "A smash and grab off the Strip—pawn shop named Gold Returns. See what you can find, then head over to help the lovebirds." He shuffled the remaining assignments between his hands. "Pick one, Sara. When you finish, you'll get the next one too!" Nick laughed. He held up one slip, "a home burglary, jewelry taken, no one at home at the time, but now the vacation is over and the house was burgled. Second one is a gun shop robbery—happened about two hours ago—Mr. Walters."

She plucked both from his hand. "See you later."

She spent two hours with a wealthy man and woman who provided photographs of very expensive jewelry which had been stolen while they were traveling. The house's alarm system had been shut off months ago and decals on windows did little for actual protection. She dusted everything for fingerprints, finding a lot of the same ones. They provided a list of everyone who had access to their house—two maids, several gardeners, a dog-walker, inside-the-house plant caretaker, a caterer, two or three friends or neighbors, several employees who came in to check on the house. Fifteen or sixteen people and their families had two weeks to enter and take whatever they wanted—and jewelry was easy. Sara made no promises as she fingerprinted the wife. Anyone who knew about the jewelry would know to wear gloves.

The second place was a lot more fun—Sara, as did every law enforcement person—loved this particular gun shop. Not only was the owner a good friend of every uniformed person in Clark County, he ran a basement target range and handed out bullets at no charge when one tried out his guns. The owner's first words to her were: "It took freaking balls to rob me! Every hour there's a cop pulling in here—when I called it in, must have been ten cars here in three minutes." Sara knew he cleaned up his language because she was female.

"Sara, I still got your target on the wall from the first time you came in here! You out-shot every one of those CSI guys that day!" He laughed as he gave her a hug. "How's that old man who married you? Tell him to stop by one day—both of you—and do some practice shooting." He squeezed her around her waist. "When you gonna have a baby for that old guy?" He grinned in his familiar, good-natured manner, and Sara had to smile with him; she knew she was not alone—he gave this intimate hug to every woman who walked in the front door.

"What did they take, Mr. Walters?"

The old guy shook his head. "I turned my back for a few seconds to answer the phone—the good ones, Sara." He waved toward an old-fashioned cabinet. "The old ones—three of them." He diverted his eyes and wiped a thick finger across his face. "Punks—don't know what they've got."

She placed a hand on the man's back. "Maybe we can find them—were they wearing gloves?"

"No, no one's touched the counter so there should be prints—yeah, maybe they won't break 'em apart and try to sell them for scrap."

For the next two shifts, Sara looked for jewelry and the guns, finding nothing. She would bet the jewelry had been broken into pieces and pawned or sold for the gold. The guns disappeared; two sets of fingerprints other than Mr. Walters had been found—none identifiable. She worked with Langston on another case, helped Greg close two, but her jewelry and guns remained as open. She hated to leave with Mr. Walters' antique guns missing but she was taking a week off—a doctor's appointment and road trip—one night in Flagstaff for Grissom's presentation and two nights at the Grand Canyon, in the park, at one of the hotels.

"To celebrate," he said.

The doctor's appointment went without difficulty; almost too smoothly, Sara worried, until she heard the heart beat. The room was quiet as the technician moved the transducer across her belly; the doctor showed them the baby's head. Then, as the chest came into view, Sara gasped as she realized the chest was moving. The technician touched volume control and suddenly the room echoed with a rushing, clippity-clop of a heart beat. Sara's hand went to her mouth; Grissom tightened his grip on her hand and smiled.

"Sounds great, doesn't it," the physician said. "Sending a confirmation 'I'm well in here'". Neither Sara nor Grissom spoke; both nodded, sudden tears flooding their eyes.

The technician handed tissues to both. "There's more to see." She motioned for Sara's phone and quickly set it to record the sound. "It's a fun way to tell your news," she explained.

The ultrasound showed a defined fetus of twelve to thirteen weeks, a healthy fetal heart beat, and measurements of the head, spine, and abdomen indicated normal growth. A tiny moving hand brought another round of teary eyes and more tissues. The physician and technician explained the images; the doctor kept repeating how everything appeared normal for "baby Grissom."

"We'll do another one at twenty weeks—checking for growth and a few other things—but, right now, you two have nothing to worry about. Baby looks fine, healthy. Celebrate—tell your friends."

Sara asked about amniocentesis.

"Next time—at eighteen to twenty weeks. I'm sure it will support everything we've learned today and I see nothing to indicate problems." She smiled, placing one hand on each of theirs. "You'll be fine—the baby's fine. Nothing points to problems." She looked at Grissom. "Is your mother still in town?"

"Yes," Grissom said. "We haven't told her."

"Tell her," the physician instructed. "Grandmothers need to know. Sara, how's your mother?"

Sara shook her head. "Mostly not in this world—I'm not sure what I'll tell her. She thinks I'm twelve."

Grissom asked, "Is there anything we should not do?"

The doctor grinned. "Do whatever you want to do—sleep, long walks, enjoy each other," her eyes twinkled mischievously as she continued. "If you've been having lots of sex, then keep having it."

Grissom heard a giggle come from his wife.

Afterwards, as they drove home, Sara asked, "When will you tell Betty?"

"You can tell her."

"Not me," Sara laughed. "She probably wouldn't understand me."

Sara and her mother-in-law were on better terms than they had ever been, but they would never be best friends. For years, while Sara tried to learn sign-language, Grissom's mother refused to use her voice to speak and claimed she had difficulty reading lips—Sara's lips, that is. Betty never had a problem reading her son's lips, or Nick's, or Greg's or anyone else. At times she would speak in a low whisper to Grissom but as soon as Sara appeared, Betty switched to sign language. Sara was fairly proficient now, but often, Betty Grissom would frown, look frustrated, and ask for her son to explain what Sara was trying to say. Yet, if Sara was alone with her mother-in-law, they got along well enough.

"Why don't we ask her to go to Flagstaff and see the Grand Canyon," Grissom suggested.

Sara gave him a wide-eyed look. "The three of us—in the car—sharing a hotel room?" Quickly, she regretted her tone and smiled, agreeing to his suggested proposal. If he wanted his mother to go with them, she would say yes. "We'll have fun," she said, thinking of her own mother who would never escape from a closed world of dementia.

When Grissom asked his mother if she would like to see the Grand Canyon, he got an immediate "yes" texted back to him with "When?" After communicating details, Grissom made another phone call to the Flagstaff hotel and reserved an adjoining room.

A call to the national park got a tentative possibility of another room "if one became available". Grissom did not like the idea of sharing a room with his wife and mother; he knew they accepted each other because they both loved him and he was well aware of how his mother treated his wife. But he had already extended the invitation—deciding to let the room situation remain his secret until they checked in at the Grand Canyon. A second room could become available…

"You can tell her on the trip," Sara said as Grissom folded the small sonogram photo into his wallet.

Grissom wanted to keep his hand on her abdomen all the time after hearing the heart beat. Both found it an amazing miracle—hearing their baby's heart before Sara felt movement—even though she realized she probably had felt movement, she just didn't know what it was. Butterflies, she told Grissom, she had felt butterfly wings in her belly but had thought it was nerves. When Grissom suggested renting an ultrasound machine so they could hear the heart beat every day, Sara had a sudden vision of her future with his child.

She laughed as she hugged him. "No, Gilbert." Then his attention turned to her and her lips and her butt. "Down, boy—you invited your mother on this trip."

"Yeah, but she's in a separate room," he chuckled.

_A/N: Sara, Mama Grissom, and Gil-overnight road trip. More to come, we hope its more comedy than angst! Reviews greatly appreciated, so click, write a few words, and send! Thanks so much!_


	4. Chapter 4

**Being Here Chapter 4**

Sara found it so easy to love her husband yet when Betty Grissom appeared at her door, her dress immaculate, her posture as rigid as a soldier, Sara's emotions seemed to roll through a spectrum—Sara always thought of her own mother when she was with Betty, two women of the same generation with completely different lives. Today she glimpsed weariness in her mother-in-law in the morning light that quickly disappeared when Grissom hugged her. Sara's own mother rarely recognized her child. Sara also sensed a level of disapproval from her mother-in-law which had been there from their first meeting. As Sara reached for one of the small bags near the door, Betty seemed to notice her for the first time and quickly signed "hello" followed by a formal "Thank you for inviting me."

When simple greetings had been exchanged, Betty's hand came to rest on Sara's arm and Sara's hand covered it. This was as close as the two got to affection. Grissom referred to it as "a hand hug" when he teased Sara about her relationship with his mother. "She really does love you," he explained a dozen times. "It's hard for her to show it."

Grissom handed keys to Sara, opened the front passenger door for his mother, and put himself in the rear seat holding a copy of his presentation. "I'm going to review notes," he said and ten minutes before reaching Boulder City, he was asleep.

The five hour drive to Flagstaff was almost due east through the dry desert. Once past Lake Mead, Hoover Dam, and the Colorado River the landscape was much the same for mile after mile. As they crossed the high bridge over Hoover Dam, Betty waved her hand to get Sara's attention before signing "I've never been to the dam."

Sara turned her face so Betty could see her lips and slowly said, "We will stop on our return." Betty nodded and pulled an e-reader from her bag and read for a while. An hour later, Sara glanced at both passengers and found them both asleep. The road ahead was stunningly lonely, empty, and beautiful at once with no rest stops or pull-outs as far as she could see and Sara needed a bathroom, not yet desperately, but her bladder was getting there. She made a quiet chuckle as she realized why the urge to go seemed to have happened so quickly.

She checked the navigational system and located a truck stop twenty miles ahead.

When the tires hit the packed gravel, Betty was instantly awake. Sara was sure it was the different vibration from the pavement of the highway that woke her, but Betty pretended she had just dosed off for a few minutes. Sara signed "rest stop" as she parked in front of the café side of the truck stop.

"And food?" Betty asked with sign language.

"And food," Sara responded. She touched Grissom's leg and asked if he wanted to eat. His response was to grumble and pull his hat down over his eyes. "He'll know where to find us if he wakes up," Sara said before realizing Betty was signing the same thing—almost word for word.

The truck stop had been built long before the interstate highway and the original building still housed the restrooms, shelves filled with the typical snack foods of such places, row after row of cheap souvenirs and a large café, which appeared to be the best part of the business. Half of the places at the counter were filled with men; a few tables were taken, again all men, and every pair of eyes looked up when the two women walked in. Sara tilted her chin in acknowledgement and eyes dropped back to plates of food and cups of coffee.

She felt a touch on her arm and turned to see Betty pointing to a large display of pies and cakes. A waitress arrived, one who appeared much too old to be working in a café in the middle of no where, but she quickly took their order for two slices of pie and coffee; Sara got the lemon and Betty smiled with delight as she pointed to chocolate piled high with meringue. After eating, Betty shopped the aisles of souvenirs for three magnets—for friends, she said—but Sara knew her mother-in-law had the front of her refrigerator covered with magnets from all over the world. They laughed when they found a shelf filled with shells.

"Who buys shells in a desert?" Betty signed as she laughed.

As they paid for the magnets, the front door opened and a man's voice shouted, "Ole Red and Cluck got in a white car! The guy's having a fit!"

Sara whirled; her car was white and while she did not know who Old Red and Cluck were, she had a feeling she knew who was having a fit. As Sara headed to the door, Betty, unaware of the sudden disturbance, added several candy bars to her purchase and turned in time to see people running outside. Quickly, she caught up with Sara—and both watched opened mouth at the sight around Sara's car.

Grissom was running around the car, opening doors, franticly waving his hat. Two men joined him, one on either side of the car and before either woman could comprehend what was happening, a huge chicken hit one of the men squarely in the chest causing him to stumble backward until he fell. Sara realized the chicken had come from inside their car and Grissom, now inside the car with another chicken flapping its wings as he tried to wave it out the door, was shouting along with several more people who were crowding around the car.

Sara grabbed Betty's arm as the older woman started toward the car. "Too many people" Sara signed just as the waitress charged out the door shouting.

"Don't hurt my hens or we won't have eggs for a week!" She was tugging her apron over her head as she ran. "Get out of my way, you fools!" She swung her apron at Grissom's butt—the only part of him easily reachable.

Betty's hand went to her mouth in surprised shock as the waitress grabbed Grissom's shirt and pulled. Sara's chuckled quickly escalated from a giggle to laughter that brought tears to her eyes as her husband backed out of the car, red faced, disheveled hair, ready to tear into whoever was tugging on his shirt—and Sara laughed harder as she saw several white splotches on his shirt. She could not imagine how he had managed to get two chickens in the car.

Once he saw the lined face of the old waitress, his shouting stopped and peace came to the parking lot within a few minutes; the half dozen men circled the stand-off between visitor and waitress. And the chicken remained sitting on the back of the seat.

"She'll come out soon as it gets quiet," the woman explained. "Just looking for a cool place—how'd she get in your car?" She narrowed her eyes. "You are trying to take my chickens, aren't you?"

With her accusation, Grissom looked around, alarmed until he saw Sara and Betty. "My wife—my mother—we just stopped for a break!"

The waitress never turned. "Why are two of my chickens in your car?"

One of the men, the one the chicken had caused to fall, spoke up: "Alice, he was trying to chase the chickens out of his car! He wasn't trying to take the damn chickens!" He brushed off his pants. "Besides, who would want these things—look at his shirt!"

The woman huffed and reached into the car where she managed to wrap the chicken in her apron. "Cluck and Old Red are good laying hens—you fools won't have fresh eggs for days now." She tucked the chicken under her arm and started to leave, but turned back to Grissom. "Go inside and get you a clean shirt—Maria's in there and she'll help you."

Sara had managed to stop laughing by biting her lip after Betty looked so horrified, and she had managed to sign something close to "chickens in the car" which seemed to appall Betty even more.

It took some time for all that had to be done with several men offering help to clean chicken droppings from the car's seats—Sara took their offer. Betty took Grissom's soiled shirt into the bathroom and Maria, the woman running the cash register, insisted Grissom take—and wear—a shirt advertising the truck stop.

The waitress reappeared with a white box, "Here's something for the road—sorry about my chickens getting in your car," she said to Grissom in the way of an apology.

The men, who had cleaned the car seats, still laughing, shook hands with Sara, Grissom and Betty as they finally got back in the car. Sara got in the rear seat saying the excitement had exhausted her, but as they left the parking lot, she asked for an explanation. "How did the chickens get in this car?"

As Grissom drove and described his encounter with the chickens, Sara signed for Betty who eventually saw the humor as her son told the story of opening windows after they left him and going back to sleep. He woke to the sound of clucking and two chickens sitting in the car windows. When he tried to brush one away, the other one—Old Red—flew or jumped inside the car; the other one followed. And neither seemed to want to leave—and they had seen the resulting fiasco.

"And ruined my shirt," he complained.

Betty signed, "That shirt needs to be replaced—it looks like a rag."

Sara stifled a giggle. The blue shirt with the palm leaf pattern was Grissom's favorite, had been for years; he packed it or wore it on every trip he took. Odds were he had one other shirt with him and that was a shirt to wear for his presentation. She leaned forward, hands between Grissom and Betty.

She signed: "Now you can wear your truck stop shirt the rest of this trip" and leaned back as a spasm of new giggles erupted from her. She noticed Grissom's dubious smirk first, then saw Betty's shoulders moving in silent laughter.

_A/N: If we brought a smile to your face with our attempt at humor, please send us a comment! Thanks so much for reading-and we love to hear from you! :) More to come..._


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Thanks so much for reading! Now, read and review and next chapter comes quickly! Promise!_

**Being Here Chapter 5**

Nestled below the San Francisco Mountains, Flagstaff was a stark contrast to Las Vegas and the surrounding desert with its evergreen trees and downtown area of historic buildings. The local law enforcement agencies sponsoring the seminar provided a large suite with two bedrooms separated by a common area that included a small kitchen. Both women quickly approved the arrangements and left Grissom for "shopping" his mother signed. Grissom smiled to himself; he was certain Sara had never been shopping with his mother.

"We're buying a new shirt," Betty signed to Sara as the two walked along the brick sidewalks of Flagstaff. "That ugly blue shirt is going to disappear." Betty laughed as she signed, "The chickens did us a favor."

As they walked past several stores selling everything from All-Clad Cookware to Victoria's Secrets, Sara realized how animated Betty was as she spoke with her hands, how often she smiled when she "talked" about her son, how excited she appeared as they strolled along the street. Sara wanted her mother-in-law as a friend, and as she pointed to one of the old buildings, a clothing store, Sara decided she would work to improve their tenuous relationship—especially because their family would soon no long consist of three adults. And when Sara Sidle decided on something she seldom strayed from her goal. Which was one of the reasons, Grissom ended up with two pairs of pants in a style he liked and three new shirts—two in blue and one in a vivid red, none with palm leaf prints, and a pair of soft pajama pants.

Then Betty wanted to find the ladies wear section of the department store, but not the section with tailored shirts and silk blouses and tweed jackets which was what she usually wore. She headed to the casual, more relaxed style of clothes and with the help of a store employee, she selected three colorful sweaters from a table stacked with dozens. She signed "Do you like these?"

"Yes, beautiful colors," Sara replied using sign language. Betty turned back to the table, ruffled among the sweaters and selected two more in bright, jewel toned colors.

"For you," Betty signed, her face vibrant as she smiled.

Sara protested, tried to object, and finally agreed to two of the sweaters and was quickly overruled when she tried to pay for their selections. "No," Betty signed, and then she whispered, "My treat, Sara."

Her words completely surprised Sara; as far back as their first meeting, Betty Grissom had never spoken actual words to Sara. A door had opened, Sara thought—maybe this trip, shopping with each other, was a good thing.

Betty was pleased; Sara was satisfied with their purchases. Betty signed, "We should shop more often." And when Sara laughed and agreed, her mother-in-law smiled happily and slipped her hand around Sara's elbow.

Later, after a meal shared with several seminar participants, Betty excused herself and, to Grissom's surprise, Sara did the same. "I'm exhausted," she whispered in his ear. "Stay as long as you want—I won't wait up."

The two women did not linger in the living area of the suite; both signing "good night" with Betty adding "thank you" before she entered her bedroom. Sara decided they were making progress. She showered and crawled into bed as tired as if she had worked a double. She stretched across the king size bed and spread her hand across her belly. Maybe Grissom would tell his mother about the baby at the Grand Canyon—and Sara was certain Betty would be surprised.

In Las Vegas it seemed the entire tourist population was crowding into one casino, or at least it seemed so to two waitresses from the Palms.

"Are you working the parade?" was the first thing the dark haired one asked her roommate as they slipped around a corner in search of a place to share a cigarette.

"Not tonight—back tables." The one with green eyes and red hair lifted her eyebrows several times. "I'm hoping that guy returns—the one with the white hair—definitely tipped like a rich man."

They pushed open an "employees only" door and found two maids doing exactly what they wanted to do. All four women laughed and the new arrivals breathed heavily in the smoky room before one pulled a cigarette from between her breasts and the other extracted a match book from the same place on her body. They smoked slowly and talked with the maids about what each one really wanted to do; this job was a temporary stop.

Almost at the same moment, the man mentioned by the red-haired waitress tossed keys to his expensive car in the direction of the valet and disappeared inside the casino. He had never selected a girlfriend from this casino and was pleasantly surprised to find several women who met his criteria for looks and he knew all of them were looking forward, to another place, to another job, to find a boyfriend who would pay their bills. His plan had been to wait a month before seeking a replacement but his appetite—and the quick work of the house cleaners—had pushed him to find another girl. Once he got the right girl, it might take several weeks to convince her to participate in the kind of play he desired. Once he suggested she quit her thankless job at the casino, she was usually ready to play.

Grissom let himself into the suite, locked the door, and quietly moved across the room, noticing a light coming from underneath the door where his mother was. He knew she often read until late and slept with the light on. With the exception of the chicken incident, the trip was going well. His mother and his wife had seemed to enjoy shopping and as he had shown his appreciation for the new clothes by wearing one of the shirts, he saw how the two of them passed grins and glances back and forth.

He eased the bedroom door open to check on his mother and saw her asleep, her book beside her, her hands folded over the neat covers, looking as if she organized how she slept. He left the light on and closed the door.

Grissom found his wife asleep, too. But Sara was sprawled across the bed, arms under her pillow, covers sliding off the bed, the thin strap of her shirt off her shoulder in a way he found incredibly sexy. And her bare leg thrown over the covers added to the enticement causing a familiar warmth to grow. He knew she slept in a t-shirt and her panties; somewhere amid the tangle of covers was a pair of long pants she would put on in the morning for warmth, but in sleep she was practically naked. As he toed off his shoes and dropped his pants, his body was working on what he desired right now. The new shirt came over his head and he tossed it behind him. He slid across the sheets until he reached her body and both hands circled her.

Sara made the sound of a sigh and wiggled closer to him and his hands moved to her butt. He pulled her closer so her hips met his, managing to snuggle a certain part of his anatomy to the place where her legs joined. He pumped his hips several times as his lips found her face. Sara made another sound, slightly louder than a sigh.

"Hey, honey," he mumbled against her ear. His hands caressed her bottom and he pushed her panties lower so his erection slipped between her legs and the fabric.

Sleepily, Sara stirred, wrapping arms around Grissom. "Hey, yourself," and he felt her smile against his cheek. "You smell like bourbon—are you drunk?"

"No."

She sniggered. "Yes, you are—your mother is in the next room and you think you're going to have wild, boisterous sex with your wife—you are drunk if you think that's happening." She giggled and kissed with him such seductive power Grissom thought she might have been awake waiting for him. Except he knew how fast she could wake up and as her tongue touched his, as she slid warm hands along his back, he felt pulsing muscles in his groin—if he wasn't careful this encounter would be over too soon.

"What if we make quiet, careful, but thorough sex without all the bells clanging and chains rattling and bed bumping the wall noise? What if I put my hand here," his hand slipped between her legs, "and my fingers here." He threaded fingers into her intimate folds. "And my lips here," his mouth came over hers. He knew the sound she made was "yes".

_A/N: Isn't that an awful tease to end a chapter like that? So review and you'll get the rest of the bed action in the next chapter. Might have to change the rating to be safe! Or maybe Betty wakes up with a nightmare! or needs a cup of tea-revews will hurry Chapter 6!_


	6. Chapter 6

**Being Here Chapter 6**

When the door opened, Sara, sleeping but in some way conscious of sounds, knew Grissom had returned and before she heard the zip as he removed his pants, she knew he would be searching for her body. Even after all this time together, his sexual appetite for her had not diminished. And he always excited her; she remained in one place as he crawled into bed.

She responded to his touch by wrapping arms around him, fighting to keep her emotions from turning into a flash of passion. "Slowly," she whispered, "quiet," but the damp, hungry kisses she was receiving, and giving meant she was soon nude. Grissom traced the shape of her body with his hands, palms gliding possessively, hungrily down her back, along the curve of her butt and over her hips. He soon found the damp core between her legs and stroked her until she was wet. His fingers kept working into her, moving in a circular motion, finding an extremely erotic spot inside her.

Her breathing became gasps for air as tremors moved through her body; her back arched, her body tensed. "Gil!"

His mouth closed over hers as he simultaneously drove himself into her, slowly, relentlessly, letting her know in the most intimate way that what they were doing was unbelievably exciting and exhilarating. He moved inside her with long, hard thrusts. She instinctively wrapped legs around him to pull him closer; he released her back, gripped her hips with both hands and went deeper.

The bed tapped the wall in a steady rhythm, unheard by the two in bed as they were in the grip of forces that could not be stopped. Sara gripped her husband's back so tightly she thought he might have bruises, but the thought was lost in seconds as her climax slammed through her. Her husband, sensing her impending climax and desiring more, pushed his erection to its hilt and held her until she went limp. The intense wave of contractions almost caught him by surprise, but he managed to hang on to the edge and prevent his own orgasm.

When Sara came back to her senses, aware of a nearly boneless sensation, a pair of intense blue eyes looked into hers. Grissom's elbows were braced on either side of her body, while her legs, only a moment ago a snug vise around his, had fallen away. She squeezed muscles of her pelvis and watched his face, so incredibly strong, so elegantly handsome, soften with a smile. He leaned over her so their foreheads touched.

Grissom lifted his hips, pulled his still erect penis half way out of her and unhurriedly thrust it back into her. "I wanted more," he whispered. "for you." His hand found the small, sensitive bud and gently, tenderly, he worked it with his fingers as he pumped his hips.

Sara caught his face between her hands and kissed him, renewing the passion inside her, and, quickly, she felt the warmth of sexual sensations building, flooding across her abdomen, moving with lightening speed up her spine, and overwhelming her brain. This was the man who had shown her how to love, how to experience multiple orgasms until she gasped for air, and all because he managed to maintain control of the most intimate moment in a man's life.

Grissom felt his wife's fingers brush the back of his neck; he kissed her, and when he felt the pressure of her muscles against his penis, he almost climaxed at that moment. But as his fingers rolled around her feminine bud, he felt the quiver of her muscles against his belly and knew it would only be a few minutes before she reached her second orgasm. He continued kissing her, softly, then possessively, attempting to swallow the sweetness emanating from the woman he loved more than anyone in the world.

Sara thought she could control her body's action, but the overwhelming stimulation was so intimate, so strong, that she could not stand it. Within minutes, her orgasm pulled her into a whirlpool of passion, waves of the sea washed over her, taking her breath, as she convulsed one last time before going limp, faintly aware of the low moan her husband made as he joined her.

Seconds later, she heard the unmistakable sound of a distant door opening. She listened intently and heard soft footsteps and the quiet tinkle of china—or a glass. Water filled a glass. Grissom moved and groaned with satisfaction.

Sara put a finger to his mouth; he looked up at her with dazed, uncomprehending eyes.

"Your mom is getting water."

Grissom did not move a muscle, and beneath him, Sara was perfectly still. They both listened intently. Footsteps moved around in the middle room for several minutes before they heard the door of the other bedroom close.

"You know she can't hear," Grissom whispered with a chuckle.

The way he said it caused Sara to giggle but she turned her face into the pillow, trying to smother the sound.

"She can't," Grissom said again, reinforcing fact, as he wrapped both arms around her.

Sara buried her face into his shoulder, still laughing. She said, "She can't hear, but there's nothing wrong with her eyes and nose—she'll know!"

He kissed her—touching her nose and moving to her lips. "She knows we do this, dear." He settled into the bed, hugging her close. "Besides, she should be proud that I can still do it." He kissed her again, and Sara knew she heard a deep, pleasing chuckle come from him.

"Stud muffin," she whispered before closing her eyes.

Betty Grissom was a creature of habit; she had learned long ago to depend on other senses—her eyes, her nose, her touch—to compensate for deafness, but she also learned to follow certain habits, make certain arrangements, keep things in order, which helped maintain her independence. Because the ability to hear had an impact on everything one did, she worked diligently to prevent things happening by chance; she made plans for everything. Most of the time she did not dwell on the inability to hear—she adapted to the silence—but at times, she deeply felt the loss. And when her son asked if she would like to go on a driving trip, for once in a very long time, she did not hesitate to say "yes". The day, and the drive, had been an enjoyable adventure; even the chickens in the car had made her laugh—genuinely laugh, she thought. The shopping trip with Sara had been a delightful pleasure and the dinner had been pleasant.

Her daughter-in-law—thinking of Sara brought a deep sigh; Betty closed her book and thought about the woman her son had married. Not someone she would have picked, certainly, and it had taken a while for Betty to understand how much the two loved each other, but now she thought they were well-suited, except for a few things. She had attempted to advise her beloved Gil on certain matters of which he took no heed whatsoever. He laughed and teased her when she suggested he needed to live with his wife—actually in the same house, but eventually, he must have realized his mother was right on that suggestion. She had also hinted for Sara to change jobs—not to Sara in any way—but to her son, whose response was "She's good at what she does." And Betty did not have to hear his voice to know the matter was not one to discuss.

She sighed and folded the covers on the bed; she did not sleep well away from her home and opened her book to continue reading. Of course, she did not read but let her thoughts drift to the past as she remembered her own husband, raising her son—she still wished she had been able to have more children—and living to see the positive results of her childrearing in the adult he had become. Tonight, she had seen how respected he was by others, and tomorrow she and Sara were going to his presentation on insect activity on the dead. Not a topic she wanted to know about, but she knew it was his expertise and that alone was enough to get her in the audience.

There was just one more thing she would like to make her life complete and, as she thought about the slim possibility of that event happening, she went to sleep, her book sliding to one side.

When Betty woke, she was thirsty and had forgotten to place water beside her bed. Coming fully awake, she became aware of a slight vibration coming from nearby, at first thinking it was a train before realizing the steady rhythm was to close. Thinking again, she decided it was late night television, music with drums, probably, coming from another room. She made her way to the suite's kitchen, filled a glass with water, and walked to the doors opening onto a balcony. Placing her hand on the glass door, she waited to feel the pulsating beat again, but whatever had made the sound was no longer there.

She turned and headed back to bed when another thought hit her. Maybe, just maybe what she had felt was not pounding of drums but another act that often created a rhythm all its own. She managed to suppress a quiet laugh until she closed her bedroom door. Maybe those two love birds in the next room were working on making her life complete.

_A/N: Thanks for reading! And no cliff hanger this time, no tease-reviews always appreciated! _


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: A long chapter-enjoy!_

**Being Here Chapter 7**

_The man who had rolled the young woman's body_ down a steep ravine was not entirely sane. His madness was not noticeable or remarkable to the dozen or so people who worked for him yet they knew to avoid him at times when he was wildly unpredictable and made work extremely difficult for everyone. The question today on most of their minds was not one of his sanity, but of the unusual calmness that had settled around their boss. Occasionally, his secretary heard a sound from his office, a little too excited, almost a masculine giggle, which caused her to raise her eyebrows very slightly in the direction of her assistant.

Every person he employed knew he had a wife and a mistress. He bragged about the mistress when he was around the men; he directed his secretary to send flowers and gifts to two addresses—his home address and a small house on San Francisco Street. The secretary could almost pinpoint the change in his demeanor—he had threatened, intimidated, and verbally abused every employee for several days, leaving early, coming in late, storming through offices asking questions with no answers. Then his behavior changed.

"He's found a new girlfriend," whispered one of the women.

"What happened to the old one?" asked another.

"Probably left for North Dakota," suggested a third.

Lance Delridge was a self-made rich man in his own eyes; he usually forgot it was his father-in-law who had made the first million dollars in Vegas and had invested the money in an exclusive distributorship, not just a vending machine supplier, of a small item sold by the thousands, even placed in complimentary boxes in high-priced hotel rooms, and used by nearly everyone at some point in their life. Lance married into budding wealth and when the AIDS epidemic hit, the family became multi-millionaires overnight—selling condoms—cheap ones, expensive ones, plain, ribbed, and in dozens of colors made in the USA and another hundred factories around the world. Unless a tourist brought his own to Vegas, he was supplied by Trevor Enterprise—and Trevor, now deceased, had been Lance Delridge's father-in-law. Lance had won the bidding contract for supplier to the state of Nevada's public health department and, even with the low bid, he made money on the cheap condoms that filled fish bowls in clinics, colleges, and high schools.

The wealthy, the powerful, the erratic and unstable Mr. Delridge was constantly reminded by his lovely wife of thirty plus years that her father had put him in business, and years ago, he had discovered a second life with a mistress. And one of those women had introduced him to the fantasy world of sadomasochism; from amateur he had become a master and had found how easy it was to control, dominate, and dictate the life of his mistress. Of course, he had also discovered the time-line of a mistress was three years; after that time he sent them to California or New York City or back home with enough money to live for a while until they found another man. That had worked well until the last girl—who had made the mistake of trying to control him.

With the last one, he had done something he had only dreamed about and it had been amazingly simple. Afterwards, he had felt astonishing power, an incredible sense of authority and dominance over his world. Of course, it did not last and he had to hunt for another, finding a fair-skinned, red haired waitress working at the Palms. She had called him after he had wrapped his phone number around two one-hundred dollar bills when she handed him a drink.

Tonight, they would meet before she went to work—carefully, he would seduce her with the rights and privileges of the wealthy men of Vegas. The eager look in her green eyes told him she would be totally his within a month.

_Gil Grissom sensed his mother's movements_ before he smelled the aroma of coffee. He quietly got out of bed, stuck his head out of the bedroom and watched for a few minutes as his mother filled a cup and stirred in sugar. Glancing at Sara, wishing he could stay with her, he gathered their discarded clothing and headed to the bathroom and within minutes, he had showered and put on shirt and jeans.

Sara continued to sleep. He closed the door and went to his mother, greeting her by tapping on the counter first, before signing "Good morning." As a young boy, he had learned how to greet his mother, how she greeted him, and, as she became more comfortable with signing instead of using her voice, they rarely reached a hand to touch or hug each other. Instead, the pleasure of his arrival was shown in her face.

His mother had always amazed him; she was an endless optimist, but this morning a frown puckered her brow. "You are up early today," he signed.

"I'm always up early," she replied as she sat down at the small table and motioned for him to join her. "I have insomnia," she continued, "and not getting any younger—joints ache. I worry about things." She shrugged her shoulders, gave his hand a gentle pat, and returned to her coffee.

Grissom grinned, signing, "You and Sara have something else in common—she had problems, not sleeping, worrying about things for years—much improved, but occasionally, she'll be up in the middle of the night."

His mother sipped her coffee, placed it on the table, and in sign language said: "I think she might have been awake last night—were you able to sleep?" She lifted her coffee cup and smiled.

Avoiding her question and keeping a guiltless smile on his face, he signed, "I'm going for breakfast—anything special?"

_Sara woke slowly, knowing she was alone, but had not been for long_. She could still smell the scent of her husband and pulled his pillow to her face. She heard movement in the other room, low voices, a clink against glass, and knew her mother-in-law was also awake. Another thought followed. She hoped Grissom had showered before greeting his mother this morning. She sat up and sniffed the air, certain she could smell soap and water—hoping she was right.

She took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. One had to learn to deal with one's mother-in-law and she had faced far worse than a petite, eighty year old woman who dressed in tweeds and silk. Quickly, she showered and dressed, not taking time to dry her hair, but taking more care arranging her clothes than she usually did. Pulling her hair into a ponytail, she contemplated her reflection in the mirror and frowned. Never a perfectionist about her looks, this morning she wanted to appear—she wasn't sure how she wanted to appear but she was certain Betty would recognize the "morning after great sex" look.

Grissom noticed her immediately and before she got to the table, he was pouring water for tea. On the table were muffins, fruit, and juice. Sara signed "Good morning" to Betty who responded with the same greeting; Sara noticed her mother-in-law was dressed in her usual way—clothes perfectly coordinated, not a hair out of place.

"Mother did not sleep well last night—thought you might have had insomnia last night that kept you up." He spoke the words to her and signed an abbreviated version for his mother, his voice teasing as he managed to keep his face unreadable.

Betty had turned to Sara who touched Grissom's face and smiled politely as he placed tea in front of her. The mischievous glint in his eyes was for her to see. She signed, "I slept soundly but I do have a good book if you want to borrow it for tonight—just in case." She smiled, signing, "Today, we won't have to drive so long." She stopped and looked at Grissom, saying "How do I sign 'lots of exercise and fresh air'?"

Betty tapped the table and signed "I understand. We will walk and be able to sleep tonight." Her frown was gone, her face lightened with a smile. She said, "Yes, we will," in a voice barely above a whisper.

Sara and Grissom grinned; he wrapped an arm around Sara's shoulders and hugged her. When she turned to face him, his lips were puckered, ready to kiss her. She giggled and as they broke from the quick display of affection, Betty was smiling as she spread butter on a muffin.

_By noon they were traveling north_. Both women had attended Grissom's presentation and, sitting in the third row, Betty had been able to read Grissom's lips for most of the presentation. Enough to get the general idea, she had signed to Sara. She beamed with pride as questions were asked and her son answered each one with intellect and patience; even afterward, people followed him out of the room to ask questions. This was one occasion she did not need the ability to hear to know the audience was impressed with Dr. Gilbert Grissom.

As they drove into the park, Betty told the story of the only visit she had made to the Grand Canyon—by train, staying a few hours with a group of students, before returning to the town of Williams. She signed, "We walked to the edge, looked into this vast Grand Canyon, ate lunch and left."

Sara was driving, so Grissom could sign. "This time we are going to walk along the top of the rim—maybe even walk into the canyon. See the sunset and the sunrise." He laughed as he said, signing, "We could ride a mule into the canyon."

Sara was shaking her head, saying "no way" at the same time his mother signed "I'm not riding a mule."

_Upon arriving at the park hotel registration desk,_ Grissom's relief would have been evident to anyone watching him when he was handed keys to two rooms in the same building. "Last minute cancellation," the woman at the desk said with a smile. Sara and Betty had left check-in to him while they inspected the restaurant—a family style dining room with several cooking and serving stations providing everything from fast food to salads to 'plate dinners'. Grissom found them standing in front of a long dessert cabinet.

"Rooms are ready—same building, just a few doors apart." He signed the same message to his mother, adding, "Will you be okay with this?"

Because the sky was a cerulean blue and the temperature a comfortable one for walking, the three quickly settled into rooms, simply furnished with two beds and a small bathroom, and headed to the trail that ran along the top of the south rim of the Grand Canyon. While driving they had gotten glimpses from the car, but the gradual expanding landscape as they approached the rim was truly an awe inspiring sight, even with hundreds of other tourists. They headed away from the crowds, realizing most people were not walking very far, and within minutes had the trail almost to themselves. At times there was no barrier between them and the deep drop to the floor of the canyon. The countless colors created by layers of rock, the sun, an occasional shadow of trees made for a changing pattern of scenery and for some time the three walked without the talking; their eyes trying to absorb everything.

When they found an empty bench, Betty indicated the need for a short rest and Sara sat beside her as Grissom walked to another bench made from a large tree trunk where he stretched out and pulled his hat over his face.

The women sat in silence; Sara could hear the wind in the trees, a few birds twittering, but no human noises disturbed the quietness of nature. Betty placed her hand on Sara's arm. Slowly, quietly, she said in a whisper, "Does he have a good voice?" as she made the two fingered gesture for "voice".

Perhaps it was hormonal, or the sudden realization that his mother had never heard Gil Grissom's adult voice, but unexpected tears appeared in Sara's eyes. Quickly, she tried blinking them away. Her mother-in-law stroked Sara's hand as she pulled a tissue from her pocket and passed it to Sara. It took several moments for Sara to decide an appropriate reply.

She could say he had a smooth, pleasurable voice, one that was easy to listen to, but that was not the description she wanted for his non-hearing mother. After she wiped her tears, she turned her hand and laced fingers with Betty's. She wanted to say the right words, not sign them, but speak so Betty could read her lips. "His voice is soothing, like the warmth of the sun," Sara made the 'C' sign for sun with her hand. She smiled, "And at times," she held her fist up and rapidly spelled a four letter word, ending with her little finger and thumb pointing to the sky, three fingers folded.

Betty's laughter began as a quiet giggle and quickly developed into a delighted laugh. Sara joined her, almost not believing she had just told the elderly mother of her husband that he had a sexy voice.

Grissom's shout got Sara's attention; he was waving his hand for the two women to join him. "You've got to see this!"

When they reached his side, he pointed to a ledge below the rim. "Watch—condors! They have an egg!" He signed and pointed until his mother saw the large vultures. One stretched its wings and sailed upward. "A wing span of nine feet!" he exclaimed. They watched as the bird soared skyward, turned and caught an air current that brought it closer to them before circling back over the canyon several times.

"Only one egg?" Betty signed as she returned her eyes to the ledge.

Grissom said as he signed, "Yes, only one egg every other year—they mate for life, too." He grinned and pointed to Sara. "Like us." His smile broadened as he gave a slight nod in Sara's direction. He motioned for them to sit down on the log bench he had recently vacated. His hand touched Sara's back. "It's the right time—okay?"

Sara nodded and sat beside her mother-in-law. Grissom stood in front of his mother, briefly looked up, took a deep breath, and then knelt in front of her, one knee on the ground. He signed: "Just like the condors, we are having a baby." His arms folded together as if he were holding a baby.

For a few seconds, Betty was completely motionless; she looked at Sara who nodded in agreement. She returned her eyes to her son. He nodded, again folding his arms together making the sign for 'baby'.

Betty whispered, "A baby—a baby." A smile formed on her face. She turned to Sara, "Thank you, dear daughter," saying the words instead of signing as her hands were reaching for Sara. Grissom touched each woman's knee with a gently squeeze and stood. When he thought his mother was going to release Sara from a two-arm hugged, she whispered something in Sara's ear and hugged her again. With the second hug, he saw the trace of tears under his wife's lashes.

After a few minutes, Grissom touched his mother's shoulder. Laughing, he signed, "I helped. Do I get a hug?"

_A/N: How did you like the announcement? Thanks for reading-now, review! Please-this story continues with your encouragement!_


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: If you've read this far, leave us a review! We want to hear what you think! _

**Being Here Chapter 8**

_Betty Grissom hugged her son with the strength of an Olympian weight lifter_. Emotions cascaded across her face and rushed through her body in a way she had not imagined. Tears flowed as she smiled; she hugged Sara, and hugged her son again. When she attempted signing, her fingers fumbled for the first time in years. She hugged her daughter-in-law who hastily wiped her own eyes. Finally, she signed "a grandbaby", excitement and delightful approval obvious in her face.

Grissom watched, somewhat puzzled by this display of emotions and affection. Even Sara was emotional. He wondered if his mother had thought he was incapable of fatherhood. When Betty's fingers began to sign, he had difficulty following and signed "slower" before he realized Sara understood, answering with:

"Three months" and "No, you are the first."

He reached for his wallet and found the folded photograph of the sonogram image. Upon seeing it, his mother sank onto the bench and cried again. She had seen many of these before but this image was different—a part of her. Finally, she was able to sign "my family" and took Sara's hand. She whispered, "Thank you, thank you. Are you happy?"

"Very," Sara responded, a wide smile breaking across her face.

Betty looked at Grissom; a grin on his face provided his answer.

Sara pulled her phone from her pocket and with a few touches of her finger, she had the recorded heartbeat converted to a visual pulsating image.

"The heartbeat," Grissom tried to explain, but few women need to have this beat explained. The three watched, mesmerized by the blips across the small screen, unaware of another condor passing overhead, casting a momentary shadow before flying away, its own life a miracle.

_After dinner, they rode the park shuttle from the hotel to Hopi Point_ to watch the sun set. Far below their perch on a manmade stone wall they could see a thin, thread of a stream. "The Colorado River is more than one hundred yards wide at this point," Grissom read from a guidebook. The point jutted into the canyon and provided one of the best spots to watch the sunset, and along with several hundred others, they watched as the fading sun light played off rocks and shadows and painted limestone, sandstone, shale and quartz into ever changing colors of coral pink, rose red, flaming orange, cobalt blue, and a range of purple from violet to indigo.

Grissom noticed his mother's hand touching Sara's arm as they stepped across rocks to the path leading to the shuttle pick-up point. Sara's hand reached to steady the steps of the older woman. This trip was working out, he thought as he watched the two most important people in his life signing descriptions of what they had seen. Or, he silently laughed, maybe they were describing him with words of "magnificent" and "breathtaking" if he ignored "colorful as expensive crayons" and something about magenta—he thought that meant purplish pink and he hoped Sara was not using that color to describe any part of him.

"_Do you think she's excited?"_ Grissom asked as he crawled into their shared bed.

Sara was already curled under covers, her soft laugh muffled by a pillow. "Your mother has your christening dress—did you know that?"

"No," he said, stretching beside her. "You two were having your own conversations several times today. What else did she say?"

Rolling so an arm and a leg wrapped over him, Sara chuckled. "She said I was the right one—what do you think that means?" She ran her hand underneath his shirt. "Now I'm no longer barren, maybe she likes me—a little."

"Oh, honey, she's always liked you. I think she had given up on having a daughter-in-law by the time she met you."

Sara's response sounded like a purr as her warm hand flattened across his chest. She raised her head, propped herself up with a hand cupped under her chin. His arm slipped under and around her back, his hand finding soft skin between her top and her pants.

"She asked if she could go to one of my appointments so she could see the baby move. I said yes." Sara leaned over and kissed him quickly. "Not only does she have your christening dress, she has a box of your baby things—most of them handmade by your grandmother—she wants me to look at them." She giggled. "She did say all of it may be too old and threadbare."

Grumpily, he said, "It may be years before my mother notices me again!" His finger lifted the waistband of her panties and traced its way to the cleft of her butt.

Sara scooted closer, bringing her knee to rest against his groin; her head lowered to the crook of his neck and shoulder. "She said I would be a good mother, Gil. I almost cried."

"You will be a great mother, Sara. I've known that for years. Your ability to nurture, to love, your patience," his hand wrapped around her hip as he rolled, taking her hand in his as his lips met hers.

They talked no more of conversations with his mother or of babies or about packed boxes. Grissom knew without doubt he would always love his wife, her fiery passion, the constant desire he had for her. When it came to Sara, he was in a grip as binding as magnetic forces—one that grew stronger with each day.

As pale moonlight seeped around edges of the windows of their room, a rush of feelings swept through both causing low hungry moans—both recognizing and surrendering to the powerful effect of the other. His mouth closed on hers and sensation whipped through Sara; a splendid, dizzying whirlpool of passion. Her hands encircled his neck; he pressed her tightly against his body. Pants were removed, tops pulled over heads, eagerness met parted lips, fingers collided, and ears heard whispered sounds, half muffled against mouths.

As Grissom touched her in the most intimate way, threading fingers through the nest of hair that concealed her most private intimate core, she twisted against his hand setting off a wonderful aching sensation. His erection, heavy and rigid with desire, probed against her delicate skin, seeking the damp entrance of her body. Sara wrapped legs around his hips, her arms around his back, her mouth near his ear.

As he eased inside her, she whispered, "I love you."

He stroked her, watching her face, until she groaned, and he felt her muscles tighten against him. With ease, he pushed himself deep inside her, grabbing her butt with both hands, and he heard her soft gasp, a choked cry as waves of pleasure swelled and flowed through her. He rocked, moving faster, muscles responding, and with a heavy groan he spent himself, collapsing, sprawling partway across Sara, one leg flung over her thighs, an arm curved possessively around her. A short time later, he felt silky lips against his throat, the supple feel of her tongue as she tasted him.

Grissom raised himself on his elbows to look down at his wife. "I must apologize, dear." He rolled to his side, facing her with an exceedingly sexy grin on his face. "After all the fresh air, great food, watching the sunset, seeing my wife and my mother as friends—more than friends, I think—I got carried away."

In the low light, Sara could see a mischievous gleam in his eyes, teasing and provocative as the same time. She placed her hands on either side of his face and pulled him into a deep kiss. She felt her love for him well up until it filled every part of her being. "I do love you, Gil Grissom," she giggled. "After all of your excitement today, I'll let you off tonight with one magnificent, glorious orgasm—besides, I need my rest." She kissed him again, long and deep, before adding, "We have another day of fresh air, great food, another sunset, another day with your mother, and another night." This time she smiled, stifling a yawn, as she pulled him into her arms. "I find it so easy to sleep with you."

Grissom smiled in the darkness, tightening his own hold; Sara rarely suffered from insomnia now. He would never say it to his mother, but perhaps she needed a boyfriend.

_The elegant dressed man waited near his expensive car_ as the late night employees left by a back door; at first he thought she had not noticed him. But a toss of her red hair, a smile forming on her face, she headed in his direction. The girl prided herself on being a survivor and while she dreamed about her future, it was not filled with silly fantasies that involved some fine gentleman showering her with jewelry, clothes, a house and setting her up as a mistress. And as for those silly girls who hoped some wealthy man might actually marry them, they were simply deluded fools.

No, her dreams were far more practical. She had a talent—one discovered at thirteen in the squalid rental house she shared with her mother, grandmother, and four siblings—she could fix hair. Even before her quick stint at beauty school, where she graduated with highest honors, she knew how to roll, how to cut and perm, how to combine dyes to make a woman, and some men, appear years younger. What she did for her customers in Rolling Meadows, Alabama, would stand comparison with the most expensive hair salon in Atlanta—she understood hair and she comprehended what a customer wanted. But her body had gotten her to casinos and within nine months of waitressing in Biloxi, Mississippi, she had gotten to Vegas. Whenever she left Alabama, when she left Mississippi, her friends were devastated they would no longer have her talent available.

Absently, she touched her own hair as she walked across the parking lot to meet the white-haired man who had given her a tip wrapped around his phone number. One day she was going to disappear from Vegas. She was saving every penny, sharing an apartment with three other girls, using the city bus for transportation, so that she could open her own shop—perhaps in Atlanta since she missed the south so much. Her smile broadened as did the man's; hers because of her thoughts about the family she had left behind, how surprised her younger sisters would be when she took them away from the drunken foul-mouth person who was their mother. The man's smile was due to how she looked, and she knew it pleased him.

Lance Delridge stepped forward, moving gracefully in his expensive clothes. He was a handsome man, she thought, with his neatly trimmed curly hair combed away from his face.

"I'm delighted you accepted my invitation," he said, smiling as he opened the door of his car.

_A/N: Another day at the Grand Canyon and the two stories will begin to diverge-and more humor coming up! We love hearing from readers!_


	9. Chapter 9

**Being Here Chapter 9**

_It was a breathtakingly beautiful day_ spent sightseeing from their hotel to the end of Hermit's Road, walking and riding the park's shuttle bus. When one said the view from one overlook was the most stunning they had visited, the next place seemed even more spectacular. At times they were the only people on the trail and talking, signing was easy as Grissom read their guidebook while Sara signed for Betty. At Mohave Point, Grissom was the first to find the three rapids far below. At a place named the Abyss because of the three thousand foot plummet, their jaws dropped at the vertiginous view of red sandstone and shale forming free-standing pillars. The trail led them through a forest near the canyon rim until they reached its end at Hermit's Rest. The log-and-stone building seemed to belong in its natural setting and, just as the guidebook had stated, a small snack bar added drinks and sweets to their provisions for lunch.

Several times, Grissom fell behind Sara and his mother on some pretense with the real reason being something else. He enjoyed watching his wife—the completeness he felt in her presence. She filled all the empty places in his life; having her in his life, as his wife, gave him great pleasure—more than he had ever thought. Watching her as she laughed and talked and signed with his mother caused him to appreciate even more his sense of wholeness.

By mid-afternoon, clouds had drifted in and closed over the canyon bringing a stiff and chilly wind to the rim trail. They returned to the village and visited each building checking out the fireplace in Bright Angel Lodge which was designed to show all the geologic layers that appear in the canyon and the two studios clinging precariously to the rim of the canyon. Because of the low cloud cover, they opted to make an early reservation for dinner, returned to their rooms to change clothes, and, an hour later, opened doors to find snow falling.

"Gil! It's snowing!" Sara called, standing in the open doorway as powdery snow covered cars and blew in wispy billows around trees. "And its cold!" She backed into the room, clasping hands together, and wishing she had a heavier coat.

By the time they walked to dinner, snow had frost-coated any flat surface and continued to fall. Wild turkeys scratched and pecked in a cleared area near the parking lot; the cold wind made their eyes water. Indoors, the restaurant was warm; a fire burned in a large fireplace, customers came in bundled in an assortment of clothing layer upon layer to shield against the unexpected weather.

"It's going to snow all night," one old guy announced.

Another man chimed in with "No, it'll be clear by morning—just a late spring snow fall."

When they left the restaurant, the snow had stopped, but the temperature had dropped rapidly making a cold and peaceful world; lights from buildings showing the only sign of human life. Grissom and Sara left his mother at the door of her room and ran to their own. It was a relief to be inside, away from the chill, and Sara immediately turned the heat up, which quickly blew hot air into the room.

"I may sleep in four layers!" Sara announced as she folded bedcovers back. "I think I'll add the blanket from the other bed." She started disassembling the second bed's covers while Grissom undressed.

"Please, don't do that!" Grissom groaned. "You know I hate all that stuff on a bed." When she stopped, turning to give him an exasperated look, he grinned. "I promise to keep you warm." He wiggled his hips, "and I promise something else, too—all day I've had to behave." He dropped his pants. "And something about watching you walk makes me…" He stopped before he said the word. He took two steps and then launched himself in her direction with clumsy bear hug causing them to collapse onto the second bed. In seconds they were rolling together, giggling and laughing, as they attempted intricate movements to allow for the removal of clothing—most of it Sara's. Everything they did struck both as funny, washing over them in giddy splashes until Grissom's bobbing erection and Sara's damp core demanded attention.

Grissom began stroking her thigh in such a sensual way the rhythm of his touch stirred her and a tiny moan came out of her mouth. He leaned over and kissed her as his hand moved from her thigh to between her legs; the taste of his tongue in her mouth sent a plume of sensation straight down to the place his fingers were softly massaging, increasing the dampness she knew he felt. Their urgency was such that Sara's panties remained around one ankle as she received him. Almost instantly, she wanted his weight on her, wanted him to thrust inside her until she exploded with an orgasm. But he was more imaginative than that—he kept maneuvering, repositioning, fondling, sucking, even as she protested—until their bodies seem to reach the equivalent of critical mass and it was impossible to move at all without sending both over the edge.

Attempting to slow down, Grissom whispered "Don't move," but as he said it his final thrusts dissolved Sara into ecstasy, a long spasm of passion. Then she felt him come and she squeezed her own muscles to extend his pleasure. They lay together for a while, a bit surprised at how quickly they had acted. Sara giggled as she pulled the sheet over them; the room looked as if it had been hit by a small tornado.

Then they both heard it—a faint knock on the door—followed by a consistent tapping that grew louder.

"Who?" Sara asked, pulling the sheet to her neck, and unknowing, dislodging her panties from her foot.

"Oh, shit," Grissom groaned. "Probably wrong room—doesn't sound like they are going away—I'll check." Sara giggled as he crawled from the bed, his bare butt looking extremely sexy as he padded barefoot and naked to the window. He carefully split the drapes with a finger. "Double shit! It's my mother—where's my pants?"

He had not gotten "mother" out of his mouth before Sara was out of the bed and into the bathroom leaving him to turn and survey the disheveled mess they had made in the room. "Oh, shit!" He grabbed scattered clothing, throwing Sara's pants, shirt, and underwear onto the bed and quickly covering the bed with the spread before he opened the door.

Before he had the door completely open, his frantic mother was signing so fast he had to sign "slower".

_The moment they got into the expensive car_, the enclosed space seemed to restrict their initial ease with each other. The air inside seemed dense, capable of becoming fog, the girl thought. She couldn't think of anything to say and Delridge had not said a word since getting into the car. They rolled smoothly along the Strip; she watched as lights and tourists appeared as blurred forms.

"I like your dress," he said abruptly. "May I call you Nicola?"

"Sure," she glanced at him. A good looking man, she thought, but one who would admire himself above all others.

"Have you ever been to Le Garage?" He exaggerated the French pronunciation.

"No, a garage?" She giggled, and quite naturally touched his arm.

"It really was a garage at one time."

When she touched his arm, something pulled or rearranged itself slightly; she knew she flushed but in the shadows of the car she didn't think he would notice. As a teenager, she had always had a boyfriend; all she had to do was look at a boy, smile in a certain way, plant a seed and soon, he would be her boyfriend. Now, in her twenties, she found it easy to focus her attention on some guy so perfectly as to exclude the rest of the world and the guy would tip her all night. This man was a first—much older, certainly married—and the first man she had agreed to meet after work.

She wasn't stupid; she had told her roommates, looked him up on the Internet, knew he had money, and made her decision. It had surprised her—this decision to 'date', but after considering her current financial state, her lack of a regular boyfriend, she had agreed to dinner. A couple of dates, Nicola thought, perhaps a fling of a few weeks. This old guy couldn't be any worse than the last twenty-something boy she had dated who had practically ruined her dress. This would be an experience, she thought, and she might learn something about being wealthy before the old man tired of her.

Le Garage was exactly what he had said it was, except the inside had been gutted and rebuilt as a very expensive Italian restaurant, serving an exquisite menu to carefully chosen customers who were seated at small tables for two. Nicola knew she had stepped into an exclusive club. She smiled; she had the best looking hair in the room.

_A/N: We'll be away for a couple of days, so enjoy this chapter (review!) and we will return with another chapter soon! Now, send us a few words-and the next chapter appears-quicker!_


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: Sorry for confusing some by not putting in "breaks" as we change stories-we put them in and they disappeared! So trying something different. Enjoy-_

**Being Here Chapter 10**

_Sara heard "mother" and bounded out of bed,_ running into the small bathroom in seconds without thinking of clothes or the jumble of bedcovers and clothing scattered around the room. She stepped into the shower before the water warmed, laughing at herself and wishing she could see what was happening at the door.

Grissom had not bothered with a shirt and opening the door, gusting cold wind hit his chest causing chills and a shiver. His mother was signing so fast he understood very little; he said "Come inside," motioning for her to enter the room, easily seeing she was upset.

"It's cold," she signed. "It's cold in my room. The heat is not working."

Clearly, she was distressed. "Sit—Sara's in the shower." Grissom spoke as he signed. He took her hands in his. "You are cold," he said, then signed "stay here, I'll go check your heat" and pointing to the unit in their room, signed: "Our heat works well." He got up, tapped on the bathroom door, before cracking it open.

"Sara, Sara—the heat isn't working in Mom's room. I'm going to check it."

Sara's head appeared from behind the shower curtain. "Get my clothes in here, stud muffin—I know the entire room smells of sex!" She grabbed a towel and purposefully splashed him with water. He disappeared for a few minutes, returning with pants and shirt. "Underwear?" She asked. He disappeared again, returned with panties and a pleased smirk on his face.

He whispered, "The wind blew the smell of sex out the door—now the entire park knows you were in here having wild, passionate sex and all the animals in the park will be getting' some tonight!" He ducked as she flipped a damp towel in his direction. A few minutes later, he left his mother sitting on the edge of a messy bed to go to her room.

When Sara stepped from the bathroom, Betty immediately signed "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. The light was on when I knocked. I thought I could start the heater without disturbing you."

Seeing how anxious her mother-in-law appeared, Sara smiled, overcoming her own embarrassed mortification. "Tea," she signed. "We need tea" and went about filling the pot and setting cups out for hot beverages. While the water heated, she rearranged belongings, cleared the small table and one chair and cranked the heater up another notch.

_The heat did not work_; nothing but cold air blew from vents. Grissom called the front desk and a young woman arrived in minutes. The heat didn't work for her either. She called maintenance who promised to arrive within ten minutes. Grissom stayed in the room, pacing to keep warm, until two men arrived. And it did not work for them. They pulled the front off the heater, finding nothing to indicate why it wasn't working. They discussed the age of the heater, the need to dismantle the unit, and finally called the front desk and asked if another room was available.

"There's not another room—we don't like to use them, but we do have a space heater," one man said. "If it's just you in here, it shouldn't be a problem and housekeeping can bring more blankets."

Grissom did not have to think before shaking his head. "This is my mother's room—she can stay in our room tonight." He began to pack her suitcase with the few items she had left on the countertop. He grinned as he thought about the appearance of their room—it did look like a cyclone had hit it. He hurried with packing; he had been gone for nearly an hour.

He was greeted with "There you are," from his wife, appearing much happier than when he left her, and a relaxed, delighted smile on the face of his mother. He kissed Sara and then leaned to kiss Betty's forehead. He noticed the empty cups and the improved appearance of the room.

"The heater can not be repaired tonight," he signed as he spoke. "So I brought your things and you can sleep here tonight." When Betty started to protest, he brought his right hand to his left palm.

"We'll be fine," he signed, glancing at Sara. She nodded her head and reached for Betty's hand; his first thought was how cute his wife looked with her hair curling all over her head.

He placed his mother's suitcase on a chair, helped set her toiletries in the bathroom, and hung her clothes on the rack. In a few minutes, she disappeared into the bathroom to change.

When the door closed, Sara nervously paced, saying, "Gil! We have had sex on both of these beds! Your mother is going to think I'm some wild sex crazed woman who can't keep my knees together for one night!" He watched and laughed as her long steps meant she took only two or three before turning around. "Help me—quickly—she can sleep in this one." She hurriedly smooth covers on the bed they had slept in the first night.

"Don't they change sheets every day?" He asked as he helped by plumping a pillow.

The look on her face was priceless—one of exasperated humor and provoked irritation. "This is a national park, dear. Not Vegas—conservation, save water, save the environment—sleep on the same sheets!" She held up a small green card on the bedside table just as Betty opened the door.

Grissom smiled; so did Sara as she tried to hide what she knew to be a guilty look—or an embarrassed one. But they quickly settled into beds and Sara stifled a giggle as she watched Betty's preparations for sleep. The older woman wore tailored pajamas, buttoned to the neck. She smelled of facial cream and had old-fashion pins in her hair and when she got in bed, she slipped underneath covers barely creating a wrinkle. Sara remembered she had once had very similar habits when she slept alone.

The snuggling warm body next to her had changed a lot of things in her life. She reached to flip off the light and Betty got her attention with a tap on the table.

"It has been a long time since I've slept in a room with others," she signed. A cheerful smile wreathed her face as she continued, "It's been many, many years since Gil and I slept in the same room."

Smiling, Sara asked her the occasion.

Betty nodded. "He was thirteen," she signed. "He wanted to go to the mountains. We drove to Mount Shasta and stayed three days in a motel. And he picked up fifty pounds of rocks." Her laughter bubbled as she exaggerated her face and signed "heavy" with her hands dropping twice.

Grissom's head lifted from his pillow. "What are you two talking about?" he groused. His arm wrapped around Sara as he dropped his head, mumbling, "Man can't get any sleep with you two around."

Sara laughed and placed a hand on his back, rubbing across his shoulders then into his hair. She looked at Betty who smiled at the sight. She signed, "You love him very much." She paused and Sara knew her mother-in-law was forming a sentence so she would understand sign language. Slowly, Betty signed, "It gives me great comfort and pleasure to know you enjoy each other." With that the older woman mouthed "Good night" and lay against her pillow, adjusting covers neatly.

Sara switched off the light and nestled beside Grissom. He mumbled, "Did you two finish your conversation?"

"Yeah," Sara whispered. "I think she might like me a little better—and she knows we have lots of sex."

Grissom nuzzled her neck. "I love you, Sara." He scooted his groin against her thigh.

Sara giggled. "Down, boy—nothing else is happening in this room tonight!"

He made a sound somewhere between a grumble and a chuckle, pulling her closer, and burying his face against her shoulder. Within minutes, he was asleep.

_In Las Vegas: _

_Lance Delridge found wooing the girls of Vegas pathetically easy_. He offered dinner at small, out-of-the-way restaurants which served some of the best food in town. He stopped and bought flowers on their first date and for the next week, he would send more flowers, the finest candies, good books if his attention extended past one date. Even with a mistress, he occasionally needed variety and he wasn't interested in prostitutes. He wasn't always interested in sex, just the ability to conquer and control another person if only for a few hours.

Nicola knew during their first dinner he was weaving a web with affection touches, polite and interested responses to her comments, anxious to please as he drove around the city telling her stories of old Vegas and plans for future growth. She flirted and laughed and placed her hand on his arm but by early morning, before the sun came up, he drove to her shared apartment and left with a promise of another date.

Sweeping her long hair into a ponytail, Nicola poured a glass of milk and ate cookies as she opened her laptop. Dear old Lance had plenty of money, she knew from a simple search. She was certain she was not the first girl he had chosen to shower with his attention and now, she searched for his wife. Dozens of images covered the screen as she scrolled down—a few showed the couple together, but most showed a well-dressed, slim woman with dark hair, a bit haughty in her expression even when she smiled. Nicola felt no concern for the woman. Richly clothed, expensive house, showing up for charity events was not part of the life of women in Nicola's family and, as she ate her last cookie and drained her glass, she closed the images of this woman and thought about her own future. The hair salon of her dreams might be closer to reality than she had thought a few days ago.

Delridge headed to the house on San Francisco Street; he knew it was ready for a new occupant and he thought he had found her. Nicola wanted to save money for some business opportunity—he would offer her a way to save. He let himself into the small house, smelled new paint and carpet, checked the new appliances, opened closets and cabinets, finding everything as he had ordered. Furniture would come later—he knew how women loved selecting furniture. He would wait at least a week before suggesting a visit to the house. He stepped into the second bedroom; the 'decorations' had been removed and stored in the small building in the back yard, but it would not be long, he was certain.

He grunted and raked a hand through his hair. He wished he had a place to go where he could enjoy a party—a party of two. The last house he frequented, where he had learned certain techniques and practices before setting up his own room, had closed several years ago much to the dismay of its clientele. Briefly, he thought of the dark-haired beauty who ran the place and wonder what had happened to the mysterious business woman. He had paid for several private sessions with Lady Heather and found her one of the most intriguing, exciting people he had ever met. He shrugged his shoulders and locked the front door; he needed some sleep before showing up at his own business later today. His red-haired Nicola was likely a quick learner and, if money was what she wanted, she would get it. Not a million dollars, he chuckled, but he would give her money.

_A/N: Ahhh-a mention of Lady Heather! Love hearing your comments! So, please, review! _


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: Another chapter-read, enjoy, review!_

**Being Here Chapter 11**

Promising to stop at Hoover Dam, Grissom managed to get the car packed and the two women out of the gift shops before noon. The trip had gone well, he thought, exceeding his expectations as he watched Sara's signing and his mother laughing. On this trip, they seemed to enjoy each other, most of the time, at least—he grinned and shook his head, recognizing what their conversation was about. His mother had never outright mentioned her desire to be a grandmother, but it was apparent now. The drive to the dam was nearly four hours including two stops—Sara and Betty giggled like little girls when they passed the truck stop with the chickens.

"We want to stop, Gil!" Sara laughed. "We'll order eggs!"

"And I'll get another truck stop shirt," he grumbled as he pressed his foot on the accelerator putting more distance between him and the chickens.

Hoover Dam's sharp contrast with Lake Mead made a beautiful sight hundreds of feet below their car as they crossed the Colorado River on the by-pass bridge before making a sharp turn and driving the twisty road to the dam. They walked across the dam, took the last guided tour of the day inside the massive structure, and read historical markers describing work on the dam. As they headed back to the car, Grissom cell phone beeped with a message.

"It's from Nick—he isn't looking for you, is he?"

Sara shook her head. "I've got another day before going back."

He dialed the number without listening to the message. Immediately, Nick answered with "Where are you?"

"Hoover Dam," Grissom said.

Nick talked for several minutes while Grissom listened. When he pocketed the phone, he asked, "Ladies, do you mind a quick detour?"

Sara and his mother knew it had to be insects; Sara knew there had to be a body involved if Nick was calling.

Grissom related Nick's conversation—body found, untypical insect activity, and Nick thought another set of eyes might help to explain things. They drove north along the lakeshore, turned right several times onto secondary roads until they topped a hill and saw several law enforcement vehicles blocking the road. The lake had retreated several hundred yards due to drought and the steep rocky incline from road to dry lakebed was strung with yellow crime tape.

"Body is at the bottom—partly wrapped in plastic." He turned to Sara as she opened the car door. "Don't even think about it," he cautioned. "Stay with Mom, please."

"But, Gil—I…"

"Sara, it's steep, rocky, dangerous. Look at David trying to get down there." The coroner's assistant had caused a small rock slide and two men scrambled to assist him. Grissom leaned over the door and kissed her. "Today, I insist on being protective. Okay?"

Suddenly understanding his excessive concern, she and Betty watched as he crawled, clambered, and slithered from rock to boulder to loose gravel until he reached the hard packed ground where Nick and several others stood around a plastic shrouded bundle. The scene reminded Sara of a dozen other places they had found bodies in various stages of decomposition.

"Sara's not coming down?" Nick asked as he waved at Sara and Betty.

"No," Grissom responded. "She's staying with my mother."

"What's the matter with that girl? She never misses a gross body! She sick, or something?" Nick said, hands on hips as he watched Sara get back in the car. "She must be sick, Gris—she always helps."

"She's not sick."

"Well, what's the matter with her? She could help us and we'd get outta this place before midnight. Is it your mom? A young officer is staying up there, so your mom wouldn't be alone—he puked his lunch when he saw this. Even better—we can get him to drive your mom back home and then Sara can help us!"

"That's not it." Grissom snapped gloves on each hand.

"Ahhh—come on, let's call her down here. She's fast—she can…" he stopped talking when he saw Grissom's face. Not entirely clueless, and as the brother of several sisters, truth dawned on Nick. He glanced upward just as more rocks shifted as another man tried to make his way down. "It's not your mom—Sara isn't sick." A sly grin etched across his face. "Grissom—what are you trying to tell me?" His smile grew. He whispered, "Is your wife pregnant?"

The two men had knelt beside the body as they talked; Grissom glanced at the others who all seemed to be preoccupied. "She is and if you tell, I'll be in the dog house for months."

Nick made a zipped mouth motion across his face, his smile so broad the action appeared meaningless, and he immediately dropped his head before saying, "That's great, Grissom, that's really great. I mean—is everyone okay with this? I won't breathe a word, promise."

"Thanks, and she's fine. I'm thrilled. My mom is beyond ecstatic, but Sara wants to keep it quiet for a few more weeks. Just to be on the safe side."

"Yeah, yeah—I understand. My mouth is sealed." Nick watched as Grissom carefully placed an insect inside a small bottle. "Hey, I'll take you home—no need for Sara and Miss Betty to stay out here."

Grissom continued placing insects into bottles and handing them to Nick. "We'll see how long this takes. Maybe—this is weird." He bent over the plastic wrapped body scrutinizing plastic and tape. Carefully, he lifted a torn piece of plastic. "This looks like a trash bag—maybe one of those treated with an insecticide—that always throws off insect activity." He grunted several times as he collected a handful of dead bugs.

As they continued to work, both men realized the process would take hours; Grissom used his phone to call Sara. "Go home; I'll ride with Nick. You can pick up Hank and get Mom home—this looks like it's going to take a while."

Hours later, Grissom, Doc Robbins, and Nick stood in the morgue looking at female remains so distorted to be beyond recognition as human. Doc Robbins explained the probable cause of death as a blunt force trauma to the base of the brain. "But decomposition is so advanced, there could be another cause." He pointed to various containers, saying "Tape, plastic, very few personal items—and I've sent the usual—tissue, blood, hair, fluids—over." He picked up a small clear container, "a few more bugs for you from the body. It's interesting how duct tape manages to kill or postpone insect activity but I guess anything that will stop bed bugs will stop decomp insects. Look at this."

The coroner lifted an arm. "She was wrapped tightly around her wrists with duct tape before she was wrapped in plastic. Her arms were taped to her chest." He made a circular motion. "Which means we have several inches of fairly well preserved tissue—hopefully it will add something." The physician shook his head. "Unless those bugs tell or her dental records get a hit or we get lucky, we may never know who this girl is."

"Or who killed her," Nick sighed.

Their conversation was the beginning and for Grissom, a new case as the undersheriff agreed to pay his consulting fee.

"Does this mean we get to work together?" Sara eyes sparkled like diamonds when he told her.

"As long as other cases don't interfere and if you are willing to work with the bugs, I'll put you on sorting and time line." He had been so relieved Sara was awake, or she woke up when he came in. "How are you feeling?" He wanted to forget what he had seen in the morgue. He wanted to feel the warmth of her skin, the softness of her hair, the breaths of air as she exhaled against his jaw.

"Mmmmm—I'll show you," she murmured as affectionate hands and long slim fingers touched his chest. Soft lips followed her fingertips as she kissed his throat, his chest, tasting him as she slipped lower. Slowly, deliberately, she circled her fingers around his growing erection. His response was to gasp with pleasure. She glanced up and a radiant allure gleamed in her eyes, making him smile, easing another kind of tension into his body.

He savored the intimacy of being touched this way, but after a moment or two of exquisite torture, he was forced to catch her hands and pull her up to face him. Those gentle hands framed his face and she kissed him with an urgency that made him groan; she could feel him pressed against her, aroused, sensual, exploring. As she kissed his shoulder, his neck, his jaw, he made a sound of half moan and half muffled laugh. She could feel the cold tension in his body let go as he entered her and began to move, slowly, gently. She sensed he was at the limits of his control when the muscles of his back became rigid bands beneath her palms. She held him tightly, letting her own pleasure build as her body responded. Her breaths came quickly, her hips lifted against him, cascading tremors made her body shudder as she move from awareness to involuntary, instinctive responses of orgasm.

Grissom had managed to hang to an edge of control until Sara climaxed; with a few heavy thrusts, moving faster as he felt the softening of her body, he collapsed as waves of passion surged and swelled through his body. For a long while afterwards, they entered that state of comfort and consciousness of sated lovers before sleep closed eyes.

Neither knew, nor would they have wanted to know, that it would be several days before they would find themselves in bed with this level of contentment.

_Across town_:

Lance Delridge spent the next week seriously courting the cute red-haired waitress, Nicola, and on their fifth date, after he presented her with a gold bracelet the jeweler had assured him was fashionable with young women, she was the one who suggested moving their relationship to the next level. Later, he thought the experience exceeded his expectations. Nicola was experimental, playful, willing to please, and the next day he suggested a visit to a small house he owned.

Nicola liked the old guy—calling him "Sugar Daddy" and making him laugh. He was certainly not the worse man she had ever been with and he was slow, none of this jump in bed, do the deed, thank you and goodbye. He spent time entertaining her, talking about people he claimed to know, or boasting about his wealth which she did not mind, and he brought her gifts every time he picked her up. When he told her about the small vacant house, asking if she would consider living there, she thought he was joking until he drove her there early one morning.

The house was small compared to the new houses across town, but to Nicola it offered several opportunities.

"You would let me live here—rent free?"

Delridge propped against the kitchen counter. "Rent free—but you have to see only me. No other dates, only me."

Nicola nodded. That was easy. "Two bedrooms—can I get a roommate?"

"No, just us. I like to use the other room for things I like—but the rest of the place is yours to decorate any way you like."

Nicola left him standing in the kitchen and wandered to the bedrooms and bathroom. Right now, she was sleeping on a twin bed and sharing a closet and bathroom with three others and hauling her dirty clothes to a coin-operated laundry. The place had potential, she thought. Most important, she could save her rent money. And if the bracelet on her arm was an indication of his gifts, she would have another potential source of money.

"What about the yard?" She asked.

"I have a lawn service to take care of it."

"No, I mean, can I plant a few flowers out back? I've always liked having something growing."

His smile was slightly crooked, and he relaxed a bit. If she was willing to talk growing plants, she was hooked. He said, "I have a friend who owns a nice furniture store. He'll furnish the place with things you like." He wrote the name for her. "Nothing in the second bedroom—I'll put some things in there I think you'll like." He chuckled, "Get a nice big bed."

He almost missed the nod of Nicola's head as she opened the back door. Her mind was racing, calculating as she stepped into the sun; Lance Delridge could pay her expenses for six months. She would see him every night and fuck his brains out if that's what he wanted. His not-so-subtle hints of kinky play had not surprised her. She was willing to use a silk rope, some sex toys, or even a little leather if that's what he needed to get his kicks and giggles. In six months, she would be heading to Atlanta where the holiday parties would be cranking up and women would stand in line to get the "right" hair.

Nicola returned after circling the small patio. "Mr. Lance Delridge, I'm willing to play with you—live in your house." With one finger, she touched a button on his chest. She smiled in the way she had smiled at high school boys back in Alabama, flirty and confident, promising with a smile what they had wanted—or what they thought they wanted.

It took nearly two weeks for Nicola to move into the house—not only did she get to select furniture, Delridge handed her a credit card and told her to make the place comfortable with whatever she wanted.

"Buy good food, too," he suggested.

_A/N: Another chapter quickly; we may slow the posting of chapters soon, meanwhile, let us know who is reading this one! We've got a lot of story to tell as the two converge-and now Nick knows Sara is pregnant! _

_So, keep reading, we really appreciate all the loyal readers who do post a review! Look forward to hearing from you! _


	12. Chapter 12

**Being Here Chapter 12**

_San Francisco Street_, _Las Vegas_:

Nicola insisted she wanted to clean before new furniture was delivered and her boxes were moved. Delridge laughed when she arrived with half a dozen cleaners including bleach and pine cleaner, bright orange gloves, and a pot of flowers.

"It really is clean—commercially cleaned, repainted. Why do it again?" He asked.

Her answer was, "I want it cleaned by me." She was coy in a provocative way yet confident in what she wanted. Delridge left her to clean, promising to return later in the day.

"No," she insisted. "I'll be a mess! Pick me up after work—we'll do something before I go home." The way she smiled made him willing to agree to anything. "And by the end of the week, we will be coming here instead of my apartment!" As soon as he was out of the door, she got to work opening windows, wiping down all cabinets, inside and out; she wiped pipes under the sinks and light fixtures, washed the small windows, and even cleaned the tops of doors.

All her life Nicola had lived with other people's leftovers and dirt. She decided if she was going to live in a real house, with furniture she got to choose, the place would be as clean as she could get it. After wiping all surfaces in the bathroom, she poured bleach down the drains of the sink and tub—there was something she liked about the smell of chlorine bleach. Her final tasks were the three small closets—one in each bedroom and one in the hall—and she did the same thing inside the closets that she had done with the cabinets. As she wiped shelves in the small hall closet, she realized the shelves were adjustable with little pegs, but the pegs and shelves had been painted so many times, she would need some kind of tool, maybe a hammer, she thought, to move them.

She hit one shelf with her fist in an effort to dislodge or break the layers of paint but nothing budged. Thinking her feet would apply more pressure, she sat on the floor, placed her feet on the lowest shelf and pushed. As she put her weight behind another heave, the shelf broke free.

That's when Nicola realized the cleaners had not cleaned everything as thoroughly as she had thought; the painters had not completely painted all surfaces—not the underside of the closet shelves—or not the bottom one. Fastened securely to the underside of the bottom shelf were four brackets and within those brackets was a slim white laptop computer.

_In the crime lab of Clark County, Nevada_:

Grissom found it easy—too easy, he thought—to slip into a familiar role in an all-too familiar room. Pulling on a fresh lab coat and snapping gloves on each hand brought back memories of similar times he had been in this room before he retired. He grinned to himself—retired wasn't really a word he liked to use to describe what he did and where he was in life. He left this lab to find the person he knew he could not live without, and this afternoon he had left that sweet woman snoring very quietly in their shared bed. The thought of Sara made him smile.

He picked up Doc Robbins report and read page after page of findings he already knew. The autopsy told nothing new; he could hope for new information from lab reports. At some point in the past—he could almost name the date—he had started to ask himself the same question for each person who ended up in the morgue, whose life he would examine and investigate until there was an answer to death, or times when there had been no answer. For the young woman described in this report, he asked 'did she suffer?' Truth was no one knew that answer except the dead, but for this one, reading Doc Robbins' meticulous descriptions, he would say no, she didn't suffer. She probably felt the initial blow as a punch but wasn't conscious long enough to suffer the last moments of her life. Based on lividity, she had been moved three times after death.

He sighed as he arranged bottles of insects. This case did not look promising; no missing person's report, no family looking for a daughter or husband looking for a wife. And every shift more bodies arrived in the morgue. He held up a small clear bottle. Maybe these insects could add to the nothingness they had.

By the time Sara returned to work, the dead girl from the dry lake bed had been posted and a multi-page report generated of findings from Doc Robbins. The lab techs went to work on tissue, tape, blood, vaginal swabs, DNA, fingerprints, and the few pieces of personal items found on the body; Grissom had his bugs to study. Sara joined Greg for a major pile-up on the interstate but when Nick arrived with two CSIs from swing shift, he told her to help Grissom.

"We raked up so many of those damn bugs, he'll never get finished. I told the lab guys to pass all their findings to you," he said.

She grinned, "You mean I get to work inside and with my sweet hubby?"

Greg made a good-natured grumble. "Air-conditioning—nice! Just make sure you work!"

When she found her husband, he was bent over a table with magnifying glasses hooked to his own glasses looking at dead insects. A body diagram lay before him and small collection jars were gathered in groups around the table.

"Fill me in," Sara said as she pulled a stool near his.

In his typical manner, Grissom did not look up but handed her a large magnifying glass. "The left leg was exposed—plastic was torn away by the roll down the rocks—I think. First insect activity started there. But then I thought the trash bags were treated with insecticide, and I was wrong. Tissue samples found insecticide on the skin." He slid one page toward her. "Which throws off any useable time line for death, except we know it can take up to twenty days for insect activity to begin when the body has been sprayed—works as well as formaldehyde. Trace will tell us if some garden variety repellent was used or if the body was doused with high-strength exterminator stuff." He adjusted the glasses. "I'm hoping for garden variety."

Sara read the one page report on tissue. "What about the tissue under the tape?"

"Still working on it." He pushed several bottles in her direction. "Start at her head. Pupa casings from her hair." Finally, he looked up. "I'm glad you're here. You feeling okay?"

"I'm feeling fine, thank you," she smiled. She lifted one of the small bottles. "We'll meet in the middle." She poured the contents on a white tray, took up a thin pencil-like tool and the magnifying glass and began to separate casings. When Sara emptied the third bottle, she heard the slightest tap of a different sound as the casing spilled onto the tray. It took a few seconds for her to find what had made the unusual sound—a tiny dark colored object slightly larger than the bug casings. She rolled it with her tool, moved the magnifying glass closer, and made a perplexed sound.

She said, "This is weird." She picked up tweezers and pinned the object between its points.

"What did you find?"

"A bug—I think, but not an insect kind of bug. You better take a look."

Grissom came to her side, taking the offered magnifying glass to make his examination of the object even larger. A dark shiny spot reflected light at one end. "It's some kind of electronic," he chuckled, "bug." He took it between gloved fingers. "This is one small device." He turned it over several times. "Her hair was combed in autopsy—must have fallen out then." Quickly placing the small object in the center of an empty tray, he went to a nearby cart, returned with an evidence envelope. "Her personal items—not much," he said as he dumped the contents onto the work table. Plain gold colored earrings, two hair clips, and a gold chain slid out.

Sara reached for the hair clips. "Maybe it was attached to one of these," she said as she turned one over, then the other.

"Or it fell from whoever killed her." His face grimaced as he touched the small 'bug'. "I don't even know how one of these things works!"

At once, both said "Archie" and Sara reached for her phone.

Archie's enthusiasm for the tiny camera he called a "spy cam" was met with puzzlement from Sara and Grissom until he pulled up images and model number on the computer. "This thing is high-tech—probably last year's model—records up to ninety minutes." He examined it closer than Grissom had. "Might be able to download the last recording if I can find the right connecter. Did this come off the Lake Mead body? I thought she was naked—not many personal items."

Grissom indicated what was on the table. "Only those things—earrings, chain, hair clips."

Archie held it up again. "These things have been put in everything so it wouldn't be hard to stick on a hair clip or even a necklace. Has to have a receiver but with this model, the receiver might be miles away." He scrolled several more internet sites. "Here it is! Wow! She was serious." He turned the screen so Grissom and Sara could see it. The price for the system was several thousand dollars. "Give me a few minutes and we'll see what our dead girl was doing."

It did not take long for Archie's page to alert both. Grissom grinned, saying, "Let's take a look, babe—trade one bug for another." His hand went to Sara's shoulder as they headed to Archie's area where his excitement had brought several others to his table.

"This is a clever mini-camera—a little bigger than a grain of rice, an audio transmitter that's no bigger, and a motion sensor that goes to sleep if nothing moves for two minutes. Somewhere there's a little gig-SD card in a small player—probably looks like an IPod—that gets downloaded to a home computer." He was tapping a keyboard as he talked. Suddenly, the screen flickered, a blurred image passed over the camera's lens.

Sara and Grissom stood on each side of Archie; Hodges and another tech had joined the group. The camera recorded as the wearer moved around a small neat kitchen, and turned toward a table covered with papers and books, a white laptop, a phone, and a dark bag. A window in the background was covered with blinds, several posters or large photographs went by in another blur. Nothing indicated if the rooms were an apartment or house. Suddenly, toes fill the screen—painted a bright red.

"It's her," Grissom said. "I'm sure the color is the same."

"So our victim is wearing the camera?" Hodges asked.

"Yep."

Hands appear on screen—young delicate hands, well-kept fingernails, no rings, no watch. The camera moved to a large screen television, sound low or muted; Sara tried to make out what's on.

"Car commercial," she said.

The camera moved with the girl and they get a brief glimpse of a small bathroom before entering a bedroom. For a few minutes, they watch as she makes the bed.

"I think she's expecting company," Sara said. The others chuckle, but it's a sad sound.

Finished with the bed, the camera pans around the room. More posters on the wall, no personal photographs, and Grissom had to remember to breathe as he hoped for a mirror.

Again, Sara speaks: "She's got her back to the mirror."

Hodges questioned her, "How do you know that?"

Neither Archie nor Grissom have to look at her to know how her eyes look at Hodges. "It's the right place for a mirror, Hodges," she explained.

They continue watching as their unknown victim leaves the bedroom, takes a few steps to another door, opens it and flicks on a light—a lamp from the angle of it. The camera moved again and a collective gasp came from mouths of those watching. A few seconds pass before Grissom said: "Pause it."

It was not the first time any of them had seen this stuff—hooks, rings, chains hanging from the wall and ceiling, a mechanical, crude-looking table fitted with leather and metal sat in the middle of the room. There were leather masks, handcuffs, rough rope and silk scarves on a wall rack.

Hodges cleared his throat. "I dated a girl like this one time. I mean—why not? I consider myself open-minded, but it really wasn't for me. For a week my ass hurt like the time I had hemorrhoids."

Grissom grunted, "Eat more fiber."

Hodges, in his usual thoughtless way, continued, "That's the thing—I thought she would use silk but it was some kind of rough hemp."

"Hodges!" Grissom's voice rumbled, low enough to serve as a warning. He motioned for Archie to start the video again, but Hodges continued talking. Archie's finger hovered over the pause key.

"It was right after all that stuff with Lady Heather—I sure couldn't afford her place—and when this girl wanted to try the kinky stuff—well, I had no idea she had a 'toy box' under her bed! The first night…"

He was cut off by three voices: "Hodges!" "Shut up, man!" "Too much information!"

Sara felt Grissom's silent laughter against her shoulder. He waved a finger for Archie to resume the video.

They watched the girl walk back into her kitchen, pick up a remote, and adjust volume on her television. Music played.

"Game show—Price Is Right," Sara said. The others looked at her in amazement. "I have it on sometimes—background noise. Besides, I always loved Bob Barker when I was a kid."

_A/N: Thanks so much for reading! Big thanks to those who review! Next chapter may be somewhat slow in coming-so read this one again! LOL! Again, thanks to all of you who are so kind!_

_And had to get Bob Barker in there after Jorja's trip to Denver with him!_


	13. Chapter 13

_**Disclainer!** We know nothing about mini-cameras, we know even less about insects on dead bodies-but we do know duct tape is used to identify bed bugs and insecticides do slow insect activity! So all errors and assumptions written in this story are our mistakes! _

_We are involved in some family celebrations for several days, so Chapter 14 will come later, not sooner, sorry for this delay. That said-leave a review! We hear from some wonderful readers who take time to review every chapter-and we are very thankful to you! Others-what's the matter?-just send us a few words if you've read this far! _

_For those who asked about Bob Barker-Jorja and Bob were in Denver welcoming a group of 25 circus lions from South America who will live in Colorado the rest of their lives. They were so cute we decided to add a mention of his name to our story._

_We've mentioned Lady Heather in this story BEFORE we knew she would be returning to CSI this season. AND we have already written her appearance in this story, one we hope will cause a giggle! (We don't want you to think we are overly influenced by the actual writers of CSI! LOL!)_

_Now-on to the story! _

**Being Here Chapter 13**

_The video continued as the woman moved around the living space_. A big screen television took up most of one wall, a dark sofa, a couple of chairs, small tables filled the front of the living space. At times reflections could be seen in glossy flat surfaces, but no face. A small table with four chairs came into view—the usual scattering of magazines, books, a large silver candlestick, a thin laptop covered the surface. The group watched in silent fascination as she gathered up several books and the laptop and put them away in the hall closet. She bent to a low shelf, stacked the books together, and slipped the computer into some type of clips underneath the shelf.

"She's hiding the laptop!" Archie's bark of laughter would have seemed inappropriate except everyone else made a sound agreeing with his statement.

"We have to find an address," Grissom whispered. "What about enhanced stills? The magazines? Any envelopes?"

After hiding the computer, the woman walked to a door in the kitchen, picked up a white trash bag and stepped outside—to a small treeless yard and patio. For a second, they see the sky, a wooden fence, and the camera angle changes slightly, as if she shook her hair before remembering the camera. She steps outside to a brown patchy yard, but the camera remains pointed to the ground. They watch as hands lift the top of a trash can.

"She's in the city," Sara says as they recognize the city issued plastic container.

It takes a minute for this to happen before the camera and its wearer return to the kitchen. They see the kitchen countertop as she moves around the L-shaped kitchen. The camera view remains low catching a glimpse of her red-painted toenails as she walks but never moves back to eye level.

A quick light changed on the screen as if a door opened behind the camera and for the first time, the woman's voice is heard, "It's time you got here!" The voice was soft, girlish, sounding younger than it should.

Everyone in the room seemed to whisper, "Turn around" "Please turn around". Instead she opened the door of the refrigerator, reached in for a container, opened a cabinet and removed two glasses. Her head must have moved upward as she reached for the glasses. As swift as a blink of an eye, every ear heard the heavy thump as a solid object met bone. The camera fell—dropped like a stone to the floor—and in the sudden quietness, there is a breathy sound, startled, the sound of air leaving lungs for the last time.

"Oh, God," someone whispered behind Sara.

The images on screen blurred to whiteness and it took Sara a second to realize the camera was recording the flat surface of the kitchen's lower cabinets. For at least a minute, white filled the screen and the sound of a person moving around could be heard. No one in the room seemed to breathe as a dark brown shoe and black trouser leg appeared in the edge of the camera's view. A soft rustle was heard and heads leaned forward trying to figure out what was being done.

"Plastic bag," Grissom said and a few seconds later dark plastic covered the camera. Another sound was made, one familiar to everyone. "Duct tape—he came prepared."

A long moment, almost two minutes, passed as the camera continued to record sounds of someone moving around the house but as the body did not move, the automatic timer shut the camera off.

"What now?" One of the lab techs' asked.

Archie shook his head, "It probably has to be reset to start recording again. I don't know much about these things—I'll enhance, print stills, do what I can with sound. We might get a face from a reflection—I'll work on it. Might be able to do something with the outside, but don't get your hopes up."

Sara asked, "What about posters, the stuff hanging in the room? The table—who sells that stuff?"

Everyone looked at Hodges whose response was to look wide-eyed, "Me? I don't know! Why would I know? I had that one girl friend a while back—I—I don't know…" He shrugged his shoulders and walked away, almost knocking Nick into the wall in his hurry.

"Where's that guy going in such an all-fired hurry?"

The others snickered. Sara said, "We found a bug—a mini-camera—in with the bug casings." Quickly, he was filled in about what they had seen. "But nothing to tell us who she is—not yet."

Nick sank into one of the chairs, shaking his head. "We got seven people dead in a state-owned van from that pile-up on the interstate. And six of them are not state employees—we're not sure who they are. We got this dead woman with no name who recorded her last minutes of life." He raked a hand through his short hair. "And Catherine's in DC for that big conference." He eyed Grissom. "What about helping us out—not just the bugs, but with this case—you and Sara can work this one while the rest of us sort through body parts and fake driver's licenses."

Sara grinned. "Yeah, Gris, help me out!" She elbowed his arm. "Like old times."

"It doesn't look promising," Grissom said with a sigh. "But we'll give it our best shot."

They worked—it was easy when one knew what the other would do—and they worked in silence interrupted when someone else came into the room. Gradually, the wall and table filled with photographs, lab reports, and Grissom's insect timeline. The insecticide was household variety which meant it dissipated in two to five days rather than fifteen to thirty days for an industrial strength formula. Duct tape and plastic were the kinds found in dozens of stores. Sara's searched missing person's reports for ninety days and found hundreds of females who met the general description of their body.

Hours later, Sara wrapped her wet hair with a towel and grabbed Grissom's old soft plaid robe from its hook. When he was gone, she used the robe as a security blanket; now, she wore it for the intimacy of the scent of her husband. He had promised to follow her home but that had been two hours ago, and had called again to explain his three adjusted timelines with the insects.

"I'll be home soon," he promised.

She was so exhausted she had eaten a peanut butter sandwich and almost gone to sleep at the table. At some point she remembered she was pregnant and drank a glass of milk, laughing as she decided to shower and go to bed. Grissom would wake her when he got home. To make sure he would, she stretched out on his side of the bed and Hank joined her by curling around her feet. For a few minutes, she thought about the nameless young woman, missed by no one it seemed. At one time, she could have been that woman; she reached for her phone and pressed a contact number.

"I'm calling about Laura Sidle," she said as someone answered the phone. She was transferred to another phone and another person where she identified herself as Laura's daughter and gave the correct birthday and maiden name for her mother. "How is she doing?"

"Much the same," she heard. "There are good times and times when she doesn't remember much. She watches what goes on around her but rarely participates." Sara had heard the same report for months; the last time she had visited, her mother did not know who she was.

Sara thanked the social worker and placed the phone beside the bed. The situation would not improve, she knew. She pulled Grissom's pillow to her chest—at times she missed him even when he was in the next room and thoughts of her mother and the poor dead girl at the morgue created an ache for his physical presence. She felt Hank's head lift and, for a second thought he might be home, but the dog stirred and settled again. She willed her mind to stop thinking; at least to stop thinking about her mother. She dropped her hand to her belly and thought about a little Grissom baby.

_The Palms Casino_

_Nicola performed well at her job as a hostess-waitress_—she was efficient, courteous, and seldom forgot what drink went with a face. That's one reason she got to work the tables and when some old guy from Lubbock or Little Rock or Louisville hit a winning hand, he was usually generous with the cocktail waitress who had kept him well-hydrated. The other reason she got to work the tables was her looks—the skimpy outfit fit her body as if a tailor had used her for the pattern—and she knew this. And as she worked her tables, smiled at her customers, brought them drinks, and collected her tips, she did not have to make an effort to show she liked her work.

She felt especially great tonight because the rent-free house was ready for her belongings. She had packed three boxes of clothes and a few personal items and promised her roommates they would have a house warming party one afternoon. The furniture she had picked out was scheduled to be delivered and for the first time in her life she would sleep on a bed no one else had ever slept on. Tonight, rather early morning when she got off work, she was going to Target with Delridge and fill his expensive car with dishes, towels, sheets, and whatever else she wanted to completely furnish her 'new' house. This was going to work out very well, she decided. She would save her money, keep Delridge happy with his predilections for weird sex, and be in Atlanta in months. Yet, the discovery of the computer had puzzled her.

After finding the laptop, she had put it under the front seat of her car unsure of what to do. It must have belonged to the previous occupant of the house—she was certain it didn't belong to Delridge. She would not admit to anyone how little she knew about operating and using a computer. In high school she had taken one class that used a computer and since then, her experience was limited to touch screens to order drinks and check her bank account; she did not send email or search the internet or participate in social networking. Sometimes she thought she might be the only person in the world who wrote a letter twice a month to her mother.

When her shift ended, she pulled jeans over her cocktail waitress outfit, slipped a sweater over her head and punched a number into her phone. Delridge would be waiting for her by the time she stepped outside and the old guy would get a laugh with their Target shopping trip. He acted as if he never went to Target, which she knew had to be a lie—everyone shopped at Target.

_Grissom entered the house as quietly as possible_. He had known Sara was tired when he convinced her to leave the lab. Then he had remained for hours as the dead seldom had the common courtesy to die with their lives in order. By the time toxicology and tissue and still photographs from the dead girl's camera had arrived in the lay-out room, and he had talked to Brass and Nick about several cases, several hours had slipped by before he thought about sleep.

Lamplight illuminated Sara's sleeping form and neither she nor Hank stirred when he opened the door. He closed the bathroom door and quickly showered, slipped a shirt and boxers on, and turned off the light. The boxer's ear twitched as Grissom neared the bed but the dog did not open his eyes. He noticed the sleeve of his old robe sticking from underneath covers and grinned. He knew she often wore it when he was gone. Crawling into bed—on what was normally her side—he relaxed, allowing himself to appreciate the sensation of having the person he loved so close to him. His hand gently went around her waist and, still sleeping, she turned into his arms and snuggled against his chest. This was the easiest time of his life, he thought as he placed his lips against her hair and kissed her.

_A/N: Thanks so much for reading! And we appreciate all your comments and reviews! _


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: First-so sorry for the lateness of this chapter. Between celebrations, a funeral, computer connections exploding-this chapter is late! That said, there is smut-we hope its funny! _

**Being Here Chapter 14**

The vibration of the phone on the bedside table was enough to wake Sara. Grabbing it, she saw Nick's name and knew it was work related. It was also three o'clock in the afternoon. Right at her shoulder was a curly head of hair, a pair of arms securely held her in bed, and at the moment the last thing she wanted was to answer the phone. But Nick would not call unless it was important; she thought of the dead girl. And of how short-handed the lab was. She answered the phone.

"Hey, Nick." She was extraditing herself from arms and legs as she answered and headed to the bathroom where she shut the door as Nick explained his early call.

He started with "I wouldn't call except we've caught a bad one." A house fire involving multiple deaths, he explained. "It's one of those foster houses with a dozen kids living there, Sara."

She was already pulling off Grissom's robe, running water to wash her face before Nick had given her the address. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

The door opened. Grissom stood there, running hands through his hair and over his face. "You left me." His hands moved to Sara's back, around to her chest, and cupped her breasts. His mouth nuzzled against her neck, "Come back to bed, just for a while."

"Oh, I can't," she turned to face him, towel in her hand. "Nick—fire, multiple fatalities. I know everyone is backed up from yesterday—so I said I'd come in early." She kissed him twice as he kept his arms circled around her. Her hands went to his face. "Bring me something to eat later."

"You need to eat something now—you feel good." His hands moved along her spine to her butt.

Sara giggled as he pressed against her. "I'll grab something." She hugged him before backing away. "I told Nick fifteen minutes—and I'll see you later. You're coming in to work on Lake Mead girl, right?" She pulled a shirt over her head.

Grissom was shaking his head. "Sara, I'm not sure we'll find much—I don't remember a body with so little—so little of anything. He must have stripped off her clothes, sprayed her down with a broad spectrum insecticide." He stepped around to the toilet and kept talking. "Henry had id'ed over twenty substances on her skin. One is fipronil—an old insecticide that is especially toxic to bees—couldn't believe the list of toxicological substances found on her skin. Henry is trying to figure out name brands, but thinks at least three different ones were used."

"Anything with the tape—under the tape?"

Grissom came back into the dressing area where Sara was putting on boots and leaned against the wall. "Standard duct tape. If we could find the roll, if we could find an address—if—if—if…" He took Sara's hairbrush and brushed her hair with a few strokes. "You could go on leave, you know. I can't remember the last time we had a pregnant woman in the lab."

Sara stopped what she was doing and turned to look at him. "You're kidding, right?"

"About the leave—no. About pregnant women in the lab, no." He took her shirt and held it so she could slip arms into the sleeves.

Turning, she hugged him tightly. "I'm not taking leave—yet. We'll see how this situation," she grinned, "this pregnancy thing works out. Go back to bed—it was late—early—when you came in."

A bemused look crossed his face; he said, "You were awake?"

"No—I woke at ten and you were not home. And I'm running late," she kissed him. "I'll see you later." She grabbed a banana and an apple from the fruit bowl as she headed to her car.

A few minutes passed as Grissom fixed coffee, put food in Hank's bowl, and flipped on a local television station. He was half-way listening when he heard the report of a fire in a foster home—with fatalities—children dead. He reached for his phone and called Nick Stokes.

It took Sara less than ten minutes to reach the neighborhood of the fire and another ten minutes to make her way through the mass of spectators, police cars, ambulances, and fire trucks snarled in the streets.

"Sara!"

She heard Nick's voice and a uniformed man pointed to Nick before she could find him. She waved.

Nick met her in the driveway. "Hey—I wouldn't have called you but we are swamped!" He waved to the burned out house. "It's a mess in there and out here. Would you work the outside—there's a new guy from swing shift coming and if you could use him—it's just a mess with four dead, two more in bad shape—looks like a bomb went off…"

Sara had worked with Nick for years; they were closer than many brothers and sisters and this afternoon, Nick was over-talking. He did not have to explain his request or that the area was a mess. A puzzled look crossed her face as he kept talking.

"It looks like the fire started in one of the bedrooms—windows blew out—that's where we found two of the victims—if you can take the photos, sort of help train this new guy…"

"Nick—Nick—it's fine. I'll do the perimeter stuff and the new guy is fine." She frowned. "What's wrong?" The way he refused to meet her eyes, nervously looking behind her, to one side, anywhere but her face.

"Nothing—nothing, it's just—I don't…" Nick's voice faded; he ducked his face.

Instantly, Sara knew. Nick knew she was pregnant. "Grissom," she said softly, "he told you." A smile played around his mouth. She grabbed his elbow and guided him to a well-concealed spot behind his truck. "When?" It was never good to be seen smiling when there was death, reporters, cameras, and crowds at a crime scene.

Instead of answering, Nick hugged her. "I am thrilled," he said. "He didn't have to tell me—I guessed when you didn't come scampering down those rocks the other day. So unlike anything Sara Sidle would do—standing at the top while her old man stumbled down that rock pile." He released her, turning to the house. "I don't want you dealing with what's inside—humor me, okay? And once you get the outside done, turn it over to me or Greg and get back to the Lake Mead dead girl. I think the skull is ready."

Sara nodded. "Don't say anything to anyone else—I haven't told Catherine and she should know before its common knowledge."

A quick grin and Nick's face sobered. "Promise—lips are sealed." His grin returned. "Do I get to babysit first?"

lllllll

_Nicola was smart enough to figure out what Lance Delridge_ wanted the first time he handed her a generous tip. Accepting his offer of the rent-free house meant bumping his desires to another level; she knew, or thought she knew, the wants of a man like Delridge. After all, women talk and she had listened to co-workers as they bragged on the men in their lives; she heard the good, the bad, the sordid, the lovely of affairs, dreams and nightmares. The main difference between all those women and Nicola, she believed, was that she had no desire to be married to anyone and would not be fooled or believe that anything Delridge did for her or spent on her meant more than payment for services.

On the first day off work, when Delridge arrived with a very expensive lace and leather skirt and bra, she put in on her body and watched as he smiled and strutted around the small bedroom wearing leather that barely covered his privates and lifted certain parts of his anatomy in a weird way. She could play dress-up as easily as children in a playhouse. He had already supplied the bedroom with silk ropes and fake handcuffs. And when she acted thrilled and enthusiastic about his "gifts" it seemed to excite Delridge to the point that he could not wait for sex—he immediately jumped into bed where she did most of the work. He lay on his back and moaned and groaned, always insisting on using condoms which was fine with Nicola. She used contraceptive film and had an IUD in place; the last thing she wanted or needed was the burden of a pregnancy or disease.

Truth was, nothing in her experience had prepared her for the tableau of Lance Delridge almost naked below the waist crawling around the king size bed, rising on his knees in an attempt to be some kind of modern day Tarzan of Vegas. Nicola had to suppress her giggles as she was struck by how his penis appeared—a wrinkly, crooked thing that looks like a boiled turkey neck she remembered from her childhood. Its end resembled a pincushion crossed with a bubble-gum colored cobra. She almost giggled aloud as she thought of a cobra—if it is a cobra, she was the charmer's flute because it followed her every move.

lllll

_Processing a fire always took hours and when it involved one death_, and this one involved four, everyone worked to document, photograph, and collect anything that might be evidence. Every investigator knew the story of Cameron Todd Willingham. As darkness came and they continued to work, floodlights were brought in, several trips were made to haul evidence to the lab, but no one left the sight.

Sara and the new-hired young man, who desperately wanted to make a good impression, practically cleaned the yard with a toothbrush. Two windows were blown out of one bedroom scattering glass and debris over a large area—the girls' room, they learned as they found pieces of dolls and hair clips, singed and charred among the ashes of what had once been a pink and purple room. Another window had burned, melting glass, and blistering paint but remaining in place.

Grissom came with food, enough for an army of workers that even the stanch carnivores ate without complaint. Exhaustion etched faces as he talked of insects and the Lake Mead dead woman; he knew the bone-tired group did not want to talk about the dead of their own case or what was found in the house once filled with children who had no other place to call home.

Nick insisted they were almost finished so Sara would leave with Grissom. Her next job would be the building of a face on the skull of the dead woman.

"I don't think I can do it today," she said as she and Grissom hauled boxes into the lab. "I'm exhausted." She leaned against the back of her vehicle. "I feel like I could sleep for two days."

"Pregnancy," her husband said. He grinned when she dug an elbow in his ribs. "Let's go home—I've done all I can do with insects. The skull will wait—fresh start in twelve hours."

Fatigue pushed Sara to agree; she knew her inability to work well would slow the face-building process. The dead would wait.

At home, Grissom practically undressed her for a shower. And at some point in the process, desire and passion flamed over the weariness of exhaustion as he stepped under the cascading water. First, somewhat shyly, then wholeheartedly, lips collided and warm tongues seemed to explode. In seconds her fingers closed around a swelling penis.

If Sara, crime scene investigator, wife of Gil Grissom, and Nicola, cocktail waitress and current mistress of Lance Delridge, could compare the two penises, both would declare the one belonging to Gil Grissom as "elegant". Turkey neck would never be used for the alabaster gun barrel—smooth, straight, and pale pink—while its crown resembled a satin rosy apple—that belonged to Gilbert Grissom. As this event was as unlikely to happen as a manned flight to Mars, Sara's thoughts were of what was going on within her own body as her husband drew her closer.

His hands were caressing her spine, her butt, spreading across her back with touches as soft as Michelangelo used when painting frescoes. At some point the shower ended and both landed on the bed—dripping water and feeling alive for the first time in hours—their hold on each other sparked and sizzled like a high voltage cable.

Grissom, more vocal than his wife, growled, aah'ed, and muttered as his head went between her legs. Sara heard him say something that sounded like "sacred gate" and she laughed. But her laugh turned to a sound of pleasure as his tongue swabbed her; her entire body quivered as he licked, sucked, blew gently against her, and then she made a pleasing gasp as his tongue entered her body, and even more so when he, ever so tenderly, took her swollen bud between his teeth. The sound of passion erupted from somewhere deep in her chest.

A moment later, his face moved above hers, kissing her eyelids, as she felt his firmness, slowly, inch by inch, slide into her, pushing rapture ahead of it. The act stifled all other biological urges, melted the intellect, and obliterated the conscience as the soft slip-slap of belly against belly obscured all sounds before reaching climax and plunging into a bottomless whirlpool.

In the breathy aftermath, Sara whispered, "this is the best sex we've ever had."

Grissom, surprised at her comment, nodded his head in agreement but did not speak. Instead, he kissed her, deeply, erotically. His fingers moved between her legs and he gently began a tender massage of her clitoris until a wave swelled and surged that sent a tsunami to her brain that brought an encore of ecstasy.

_A/N: Okay-did we make up for being so tardy with this chapter? _

_(Cameron Todd Willingham was put to death in Texas, convicted of setting a fire which killed his 3 daughters. Last year, forensics proved the fire was accidential, that evidence was wrongly collected, processed and presented to the jury.)_


	15. Chapter 15

_Enjoy!_

**Being Here Chapter 15**

_It took Sara two days to mold a face over the skull_ and, unknowingly and with the exception of brown hair instead of blonde, the results created a striking resemblance to the dead girl. However, the dead girl had not worked for nearly two years; anyone who might have recognized the photos splashed for a few seconds on local television saw brown hair and never looked closer. Most of her former friends had lost contact; the few she had knew she wanted to leave Vegas for California and barely glanced at the unidentified dead girl's head shot.

Grissom worked with Sara until they seem to run out of things to process. "We've hit a dead end," he said late one morning. Sara kept her head down and turned another page of the file; there was something here, she thought, something they had all missed. She turned to the photographs made from the mini-camera images of the house letting her finger guide her eyes as she looked at every object in the rooms.

"You find something?" Grissom asked.

She frowned, "No—just looking at the things she had. Nothing is personal—not one photograph, nothing on the walls. It looks like everything came from Target!" She flipped to the next photograph. "None of this came from Target." A smile played at the corners of her mouth. She looked at Grissom. "You could call your old friend—see if any of this looks familiar."

Grissom grunted. "You know she's not into that line of work now."

The smile grew. "This is almost like a stage."

He came to stand behind her chair. "What do you mean?"

"Look at all the things hanging on the wall—over here on the shelves. This stuff is on display—props, I think." She picked up a photograph of the table in the center of the room and reached for a magnifying glass. "Look at the belt—it has no markings on it—like its new, never been used."

Grissom studied the belt; she was right. He mumbled, "Interesting."

But her discovery did not lead in any direction and another day passed with no one recognizing the face of the young woman.

llll

_Nicola resisted Delridge's suggestion of leaving the Palms_, surprising him with her intense insistence on keeping her waitress job.

"I can put you on the payroll at my business—I'm the boss; no one will question it."

She continued to stand firm. "I like what I do."

"I'll give you the same amount of money—you can save it for this special project you have."

With his offer came compromise. "I'll cut back to three or four nights," Nicola suggested. "And," she gave him the high school smile, "maybe I could take a computer course during the day."

"College? You want to go to college?" He asked. His frown making it apparent he disliked the idea.

"No, not college—just a course in learning how to email, stuff like that." She wasn't going to explain her real reason—the white laptop she had found. "There's a class offered at the library. I'd like to learn enough to be able to email my younger sister—maybe get a computer."

He laughed; she was so naïve, he thought. If she wanted to keep working, he'd keep playing cards and enjoying her afterward. She had a lot of energy, a lot of eagerness—something his mother had called "spunk".

She flipped the short skirt she was wearing so Delridge could see her thong. He was one weird old guy, she thought. Had so much money he did not think twice about setting her up in this house, paying her expenses, showing up mid-afternoon for one of his "plays" as he referred to what they did. And the weirdest thing of all was how he wanted sex—more show than the actual act she had come to realize. He got all worked up with costumes of leather and lace, feathers and silk, handcuffs and strange accoutrements, but when it came to actual sex; his idea was a quick roll on the bed and an hour nap.

He did have some odd predilections—wearing bizarre straps and belts that tightened around his penis, buying strange outfits for her to wear, getting pleasure by having her wrap a knotted scarf around his neck, but she had done the same thing in middle school with gym socks—all the girls had done it once they realized it caused them to pass out and they did not have to participate in the day's physical education time.

lllll

_Once a week Grissom and Sara arrived at his mother's place for an early dinner_—usually going to a restaurant of her choice, occasionally eating dinner she had prepared. Betty's normally positive outlook on life extended to everyone around her; she worried about certain things but mostly kept her thoughts to herself. Today, she felt better about her son and his wife than she had in years-since they married certainly. She smiled as she combed her hair—maybe the news of a grandbaby had affected her feelings about her daughter-in-law.

When she moved to Vegas, she and her son had established a routine—he appeared at her home a few times a week or left a message on her phone and she worked very hard to keep from interfering in his work and the life he had established. He often arrived with someone from work and gradually she learned the names and faces of his team. That's how she met Sara Sidle, a young, slim brunette who appeared to be a quiet, shy girl and Grissom seemed to be a proud mentor as he introduced the two women. At the time, it never occurred to Betty to think of the two as a couple.

Later, learning they lived together when Gil invited her to lunch in his new home, she had been surprised by his announcement of joint-ownership of the condominium. And marriage was not mentioned as part of their plans. Betty did not approve of this arrangement and for the first time in years she and her son had argued. And the next time they disagreed Sara was again at its center. When he announced his "retirement" from the lab—what was he thinking she had asked. He never admitted the real reason, but once again, their disagreement danced around Sara Sidle. She had left him for reasons Betty never learned.

From her point of view, his decision worked out—the two returned to Vegas as a married couple. She breathed a sigh of relief, and then they went to Paris. Everyone needed a honeymoon, she thought, but Sara returned to Vegas to work while Gil traveled and worked half-way around the world. Sara took over the responsibility of checking on her—Betty could not find fault with her daughter-in-law in that area—she called her every day, came by to see her and took her out to eat. But for a year Betty questioned herself—why did her son believe marriage was an occasionally weekend together? Why did his wife agree to this arrangement as the way to live as a wife?

Betty was ready, checking her watch and realizing she was early. Almost a year ago, Gil had returned to Vegas and stayed. A husband and wife should be together—she had made her thoughts known to both of them—and her son had listened—finally. She smiled again as she touched her hair and straightened her jacket. Today—the result of her son being with his wife had brought her to this point—she was going to an appointment with them. Sara was having the test to check for birth defects—Betty could not remember what it was called—and Sara had invited her to see the sonogram. Betty wasn't sure what one did with the results of the test, but Gil had said they wanted it done to get as much information as possible about the baby's health. Afterwards, they were going to lunch and when they returned she and Sara were opening two sealed boxes she had retrieved from the back of the storage closet. It had been years since she had purchased these special boxes and placed the items inside. Probably rags by now, she thought, but she wanted Sara to see them. Maybe another little Grissom baby would wear the same dress her baby had worn—it had been such a special dress.

llllll

"_When are you telling Catherine?"_

Sara pulled a shirt over her head before answering. "After this amniocentesis—and Nick knows." By the look on his face, she knew he had told. "It's okay—he said he guessed."

"He did—when you didn't come down the rocks—I said you weren't sick." He grinned. "I guess it is the natural thing that happens." He moved close and placed his hands across her abdomen. "You know you've got a little bump going on down here." His hands moved to her breasts, "And here—little bigger!" He leaned to kiss her.

It was her turn to smile. "He's growing—almost four months now. Your mother is excited."

"She."

"He."

This was a familiar conversation. Today, they might learn gender—definitely could with the test results. But the two were not certain they wanted to know; maybe they wanted a surprise.

An hour later, the three Grissoms watched a monitor as the technician moved the ultrasound wand over Sara's abdomen while the physician pointed out the wall of the uterus, the placenta, the umbilical cord, and the baby's abdomen. No one breathed as the screen changed, filled with an image of a baby—a hand waved, a foot moved, a head with a nose and mouth—dumbstruck would have been an adequate description as the image of a baby focused. Grissom's finger touched the screen.

He was the first to speak, "A miracle." Appearing to respond to his voice, the baby's legs moved.

The technician was quick; the next image clearly showed the tiniest body parts already developed between the baby's legs.

Sara and Betty made the same sound—a soft exclamation that women make everywhere when they see a baby.

Grissom's eyebrows shot upward; he said, "Look at that—we've having…" He turned to look at Sara when he heard her quiet sob.

_A/N: How's that for a cliff-hanger? Next chapter soon, couple of days perhaps, as we have a big celebration going on in our part of the world! Best party in the world-Mardi Gras! Thanks for reading! Like it? Let us know! _


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: Thanks so much for all the kind words and for your patience as we celebrate the greatest party in the world! Enjoy this chapter as our story moves along!_

**Being Here Chapter 16**

_Nicola finished her Saturday night shift with no more than the usual happenings_—no mixed up drinks, no drunks falling out of chairs, but she did have to sing "Happy Birthday" at one of her tables, a chore that she always despised. She felt better when a middle-age photographer asked another waitress if she would meet him later and the waitress said "No, I've got to get to my other job." When he asked her what other job she had, the girl said "I work for the IRS." Of course, it was a lie, but everyone used the same line for the obnoxious rich and wanna-be famous who showed up at the tables.

Nicola was now driving her car using Delridge's credit card to buy gas, and was relieved to have two consecutive nights when he was busy with important civic or family functions with the wife which meant she had the luxury of going straight to bed. In her dreams, she cut and styled hair, mixed dyes continuously, and saw the smiling faces of anonymous satisfied customers. Having slept with tips piled on her bed, she woke up with money on the floor and as she counted the bills, she smiled, saying to no one, "One thing about money, it can make you rich!" She had over two thousand dollars in cash in her secret spot, plus her paycheck every two weeks which went as direct deposit to her bank account. It would not be long before she would leave Delridge and Las Vegas and head back east.

After she had found the hidden computer, she had searched the entire house and found nothing else—not so much as a toothpick or scrap of paper. But her search had caused her to tape a small box to the underside of the kitchen sink and that's where she kept her cash. She had learned years ago to have easily available cash. Delridge, as weird as he was about sex, had kept his word; she had no expenses—none for food or utilities or gas for her car. She really felt she was on the home stretch without another contender in sight.

After a breakfast of toast and juice and a pudding cup, she cleaned the small house with vigorous zeal—not that it needed much cleaning, but for a brief time, she could pretend the place was all hers and not a place for an old guy to keep a young mistress and dress up in his perverted dreams. In the afternoon, she drove to the local library with the white laptop sitting on the front seat beside her. One of the other waitresses had told her there were people who could help with computers without taking a computer course. "Just ask one of the librarians," she told Nicola, adding, "they know everything."

llllll

_Grissom had never seen his wife or his mother laugh and cry at the same time until today_. Later, he thought they must have used a box of tissues each, maybe more because at one time his mother was using a towel the doctor handed her. He thought he was the only person in the room who wasn't crying. And he knew he had never heard gibberish coming out of Sara's mouth as he did today. At one time tears were dripping from his mother's chin. Sara was smiling and wiping tears away from her own face. All of this happening because of the black and white image moving on the screen—a baby whose hands opened and closed, fingers stretched, legs kicked. Afterwards, he admitted he was speechless even though his wife accused him of wiping his eyes when he thought no one was watching.

He knew Sara was so ecstatic, so high on endorphins she never felt the needle enter her abdomen for the amniocentesis. The doctor kept saying they had nothing to worry about with the test results that would come in a week or so, encouraging Sara to make an "official announcement" to friends.

During their dinner, neither woman could carry on a sensible conversation, much less eat, because of the constant smiles on their faces. Anything he said made one giggle, then the other. He thought he might be in a time warp with imposters taking the place of his wife and his mother as the two women with him seemed to be life-long best friends. He also realized he no longer had to serve as translator between Sara and his mother.

Finally, he said while signing "I don't think I've ever seen you two this way—I know I have never seen either of you look like a Cheshire cat!" He stirred the food on his plate, filled his fork, but stopped its motion halfway to his mouth. "Do all mothers and grandmothers do this?"

Sara signed what he had said to Betty and both women began to laugh.

Betty signed, placing her hand on her forehead and pulling her fingers forward as if she were adjusting a cap, and then both hands moved. "A boy is a blessing" she signed. As her hands spread, she touched Sara's hand and Grissom's hand giving each one a gentle squeeze.

Grissom thought their mood would change, but he was wrong. Back at his mother's place, he placed two boxes on the table. Betty carefully opened the acid-free storage containers. Removing tissue paper, she handed Sara the first individually wrapped soft package. Sara unwrapped more tissue paper and unfolded tiny baby gowns, tucks sewn across the front, pastel flowers, bows and lace decorating each one.

"Oh, they are beautiful," Sara whispered as she spread one across her hands. "You wore this!" She held it out to Grissom.

Betty signed: "We did not know boy or girl back then." She turned to Grissom, signing "Your grandmother made these—your layette." Betty passed another package to Sara—a white knitted sweater, soft as a cloud with intricate designs down its front. Sara lifted it to her face; her eyes closed.

Grissom grabbed a box of tissues and dabbed her eyes. He didn't think it was possible to make so many tears when a person seemed happy. "Are you okay?" He asked.

She turned to his shoulder, baby sweater in one hand, and placed her hands around his neck, mumbling, "I think I'm having a melt-down—a good kind. Your mother kept all your baby things! You wore these, Gil! And now your son will!"

Betty continued to pull things from the first box—blankets, bibs, soft shoes, a hat, more gowns—signing old fashioned words seldom used now—"romper" was a one piece overall, "booties" for the shoes, "bonnet" for the hat. All of it hand sewn in pale colors of yellow, green, blue, even lavender, covered with decorative needlework—embroidery Betty signed. When the baby items were out of the box, handled and examined by Sara and Grissom, she explained making them with her mother.

"She would sew. I cut out the patterns," she signed. "It was so much fun," her face showed her delight in remembering the work. "Like shopping today except we shopped for fabric and buttons and patterns."

"Did I really wear these?" Grissom asked, picking up the lavender baby gown. "We are going to need a baby girl to wear this one!"

Reading his lips, his mother nodded, signing. "Back then babies wore baby clothes. Not so much pink and blue like today." She motioned for Grissom to open the second box. She signed for Sara, laughing quietly, "Wait until he sees this."

The women watched as he carefully lifted cloth from the box—yards of lace covered fabric. He unfolded the christening dress he had worn.

"Oh, my God," he whispered. He heard Sara giggle. The dress kept unfolding—nearly four feet long, a lace layer, a silky layer, a cotton layer. "A baby wore this?" He asked.

His mother pointed and then signed, "You."

Over the years the dress had developed a creamy white aged appearance but was in pristine condition. Betty signed its story. "This was made from my wedding dress. Even the lace came from it. My mother and I cut it up to make a special dress." She turned the dress over. "The buttons were down the back of my dress so we used them again." Her eyes misted and she stopped signing to wipe her eyes before continuing. "I had almost given up seeing another baby wear this." Her smile was back. "He wore it only the one day. For his christening."

Grissom watched Sara. He knew her thoughts about religion—he really did not consider himself Catholic any longer—and wondered how Sara would respond to his mother's not-so-subtle mention of a religious ceremony. The broad smile on his wife's face provided an answer.

Slowly, Sara signed her response, "Your grandson will be as beautiful as your son when he is christened." She held up the dress with its voluminous layers, her eyes meeting Grissom's. She said, "You're in charge of this event!" She snickered hiding her face in the fabric for a few seconds before turning to Betty. "Thank you," she signed. "Thank you for saving all of this, for having faith in the," she stopped signing, turned to Grissom and asked, "How do I sign 'possibility'?"

Grissom signed the word for his mother whose face brightened even more, signing, "You will use these things?"

Sara vigorous head nod of yes caused Betty to open her arms.

lllll

_Since childhood, Nicola had avoided libraries_. In her world, there was nothing given for free and she never quite understood the concept of loaning books. So inside the bright, well-designed openness of the Clark County library on East Flamingo Road, the first thing she did was stub a toe on a table leg. A display of books shuddered but did not fall; Nicola muttered, "Crap," before realizing a woman was seated just beyond the table. "Sorry, I'm such a klutz." The woman went back to using the computer. Nicola wondered if she could ask this person about computers but decided against it.

Another woman, sitting behind a counter, looked a bit more welcoming as Nicola approached her. She placed the computer on the counter, not knowing exactly what to ask.

The woman said "You can use the wireless network for free—along that wall if you need an outlet," she pointed to Nicola's left.

Nicola had not thought about power; of course, it had some type of rechargeable battery. "I don't have a power cord," she said. She swallowed. She hated to admit how little she knew about anything. "I—I really don't know how to use this—I—I thought I could get some help?"

The young woman smiled. "Sure—let's see what you have here." She opened the laptop and pressed a button. "We need some power—you didn't bring your cord? We probably have one around here." She disappeared for a few minutes.

Nicola looked around the library. She saw stacks of books near the back; the front was filled with computers and chairs and sofas more like a coffee shop than the libraries of her childhood.

The woman returned, "We'll try this one." And within minutes the screen lit up. She tapped several keys. "Do you have a password?"

"No—I got this from my sister." Quickly Nicola made up a story. "She moved with her boyfriend and left this, so I thought I'd learn how to use it."

A few more stokes on the keyboard and the woman frowned. "I can't get this to cooperate." She hit a few more keys. "Can you call your sister? She has a lock on this thing that I'm not familiar with." From the look on Nicola's face, the librarian stopped whatever she was doing. "This isn't stolen, is it?"

Nicola's normal confidence gave way to intimidation. The woman behind the desk was not much older than Nicola but the sudden question asked with such self-assurance had startled her. "No, no, it's not stolen." Her words rushed out, "I found it when I moved into a house—just left behind—I don't know how to find the owner—she moved without leaving a forwarding address. I thought I might find out something…"

The woman was nodding. "Okay—stay right here. I think I know someone who can help us." She left the desk and walked to a chair near the door where a dark-haired young man was reading a book. As the two returned to the desk, Nicola recognized the interactions between the two as that of a couple. The librarian turned the laptop toward the young man. "Archie is a wiz at this sort of thing—he'll take a look and see if he can get it running." She laughed, "But it better not be stolen 'cause he works for the police!"

_A/N: And now you know-it's a boy! With a hint for another one! And Catherine still doesn't know! LOL! Thank you for all the comments and reviews! Next chapter soon!_


	17. Chapter 17

_A/N: Another chapter-read, enjoy! Let us know your thoughts!_

**Being Here Chapter 17**

"_I'm going to tell Catherine when I go back to work." _

Grissom rolled over to face Sara who was sitting up in bed reading. "Okay, she needs to know. What you reading?" He asked as his hand touched her knee, knowing what book she kept at her bedside. "Do we really have to read about having a baby? Doesn't it just happen?"

She grinned before making a face at him. "That's so typical male, Gil. Yes, we need to read about what's happening—about what's going to happen. We are taking classes, too—about delivery and taking care of a newborn." She scooted down in the bed so her face was next to his, marking her place with a finger. "We haven't talked about what happens next—the results of the test."

"The doctor said we didn't have anything to worry about—the baby looks great." He saw the worry in her eyes and wrapped an arm around her. "Everything is going to be fine—remember what she said about opening his hand being a sign of normal development?" He kissed her and held her closer. "You know we'll deal with anything else, but right now, we are going to believe our little boy is healthy and happy and growing." He chuckled. "Now, what I want to know is how did my wife—the woman who has always been very anti-established religion—agree to a formal christening of her baby? That's what you did, you know!" His deep laugh made her smile.

Sara dropped her book behind his back and hugged him. "It means so much to your mother—her religion means a lot to her; its tradition. You were baptized, so was I." She shrugged her shoulders. "When he's grown he can make his own decisions about what to believe—like his dad." For a few minutes both were quiet as they lay in each other's arms, and then Sara said, "I find it hard to believe we're having a baby—in a few months, we'll be changing diapers and trying to figure out what to do next."

Grissom chuckled as he shifted. "Sorry—something's getting in the way, dear."

She quickly stifled her laugh as he rolled on his back, an obvious bulge developing below his waist. "Down, boy! We've got to wait twenty-four hours," she said as she collapsed into giggles.

Grumbling, Grissom said, "I am trying to have a serious discussion and I get a hard-on and you go into a giggly fit!"

Sara pinched her lips together, "I'm sorry," she said. "What's your serious discussion?"

"A christening ceremony—godmothers and godfathers—a name—where to have this event. We have to think about this—it's serious business!"

Sara rocked against him, laughing harder.

"What is so funny?" He asked as Sara felt a rumble deep in his chest.

She released her hug and took his face in her hands. "You are so sweet, Gil. As much as you protest not being Catholic, I know you are—deep down!" She kissed him quite fervently, running her tongue across his upper lip before breaking away. "I can take care of that bulge for you if you want," she whispered. Her hand went to the waistband of his pants, one finger went under the elastic.

One eyebrow lifted. "Not for twenty-four hours—not even that," he said. "Now, seriously, who's to be godmother, who can we select as godfather? Serious!"

Her hand came back to his face and she caressed his jaw, running one fingertip across the dimple in his chin. "Catherine will be godmother—she'll be thrilled. Nick and Greg can be godfathers—a little boy needs two good men in his life. And Jim can stand in as a grandfather."

Grissom grinned. "You've thought about this? And you called me a secret Catholic."

"I did," her voice filled with amusement. "When your mother said she had kept your christening dress, I knew this was something we should do. Mostly for her, but I think our friends will enjoy it too. And—please plan a small private christening—not one after Sunday mass." She made a one-sided grimace before a true smile developed. "I'll even go to a parent's class if the priest requires it."

This time, Grissom wrapped both arms tightly around her, saying "My sweet Sara—I'm always amazed at your goodness."

lllll

_The guy standing at the librarian's desk_ seemed to know what he was doing; for fifteen minutes he tapped on keys and tried various combinations of passwords—the first six letters of the alphabet, the word 'password', the first six numbers. He checked underneath for something but the little cursor light kept blinking.

"What's the address?" Archie asked Nicola.

When she told him the street address, he tried it as a password and suddenly the computer came to life. The guy laughed a short little bark of a sound. "You're in—maybe you can find the owner. Or maybe not." His soft laugh gave Nicola a sense of trust.

"I don't know enough about a computer to find anything—I'm a waitress—haven't learned anything about a computer except to touch a screen. I was thinking about taking the introductory course here."

He nodded. "Do you mind if I take a look? I mean, if someone left it when they moved, chances are it was left by accident. Could have family photos, banking information, things a person would hate to lose."

Nicola nodded. The librarian handed her a newsletter, saying "Here's a list of our classes—have you got a library card?"

Archie hit keys and found no stored spreadsheets or documents, no address book, no calendar, yet the laptop was a top line, expensive computer. He pulled up the browsing history and found the last searches were for vitamins, dentists, apartments in San Diego, and a couple of online catalogs. The email account had not been used in three months. He tapped a few more keys and found web camera software—expensive, one that did not fit with the lack of use of other programs. He glanced up at the girl who was filling out a form for a library card. He clicked on the first video, quickly muting sound.

As the first image played on the screen, Archie did a double-take between the girl who had brought the computer into the library and the computer. What he saw was familiar; he knew it was the same kitchen he had watched from the Lake Mead dead girl's mini-camera. Same lighting, same table, same back door, even the same candle stick on the table. His breath caught; he had to call Nick and Sara.

"Where did you find this? At the address you gave me, right?"

The girl looked at him and for the first time he saw how pretty—beautiful she was—even with her hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her casual dress disguised her figure, he realized. He glanced at his girlfriend who was watching him. Not in a good way, he thought.

llllll

"_Why don't we meet Catherine_—together—and tell her about the baby?" Grissom had thought Sara would sleep; she was supposed to rest for at least one day after the amniocentesis but her idea of rest was to read for awhile and then she had gotten up to fix something to eat. Even after he offered to bring her a snack, she had followed him to the kitchen, saying she did not need bed rest.

"Would it be right to tell everyone—Greg, Jim, and Catherine—at the same time?" She asked. "We could meet them before work tonight."

Grissom placed a plate of cheese and fruit in front of her. "That's a good idea." He picked up his phone and sent a text message to four people, not forgetting about Nick, to meet them at a favorite restaurant. Within minutes, he got responses from everyone. "They'll be there—when do these people sleep?"

Sara laughed, knowing they did not sleep, not much, not with what was going on at the lab, and that did not even count the Lake Mead dead girl.

A few hours later, Nick was the first to arrive, sliding beside Sara at the table, teasing "You can't stay away from us even on your day off!"

"Act surprised," she whispered. "We're telling everyone."

And suddenly Greg and Jim walked in followed closely by Catherine and Lou Vartann. The table filled with water and iced tea in glasses, cups of coffee, and baskets of warm rolls, as everyone gave quick orders to a waitress who never wrote anything on her pad. Half-a-dozen conversations started and stopped as they over talked each other with greetings and banter of good friends until a moment's lull occurred while waiting for dinner.

Quickly, Grissom got everyone's attention by clearing his throat before saying, "We have an announcement to share with our good friends."

Catherine's mouth opened and closed before she could say anything else. Greg's spoon stopped in mid-stir in his coffee cup. Nick fidgeted, placing a hand on Sara's back. Jim and Lou looked at Grissom as they had done a thousand times before when he wanted their attention.

As a restaurant is seldom silent, everyone leaned forward. A slight frown puckered Catherine's forehead.

"You're our friends—family, really, and we wanted you to know first—we're having a baby."

For two seconds there was silence at the table. Greg was the first to grin followed by a soft chuckle from Jim Brass. Nick's hand resting on Sara's back began to pat softly as he smiled. Lou, the first to speak, congratulated both, and then Catherine broke in, a torrent of words rushing from her mouth so rapidly that no one even bothered trying to answer her questions.

"A baby! A real baby—not another dog? Is this an adoption? No—wait, Sara, are you having a baby? And you haven't said a word? How far along? What's your due date? How long have you known? Have you seen a doctor? A baby! You two! No fertility treatments? Surely you would have told me that! Grissom, you old dog! A baby!" She leaned over the table and grabbed Sara's hand. "You should have told me you were trying! It can't be a surprise—not at your age! Now, please, don't tell me you've just used a home pregnancy test and making this announcement—I don't think I can wait nine months to hold a baby!"

Everyone knew she would have kept talking if the waitress had not appeared with four plates balanced on her arms and multiple hands moved glasses and cups to make room for dinner. It did give Catherine time to take a fast gulp of air before beginning her questions again.

"Due date? Which doctor? Which hospital? You haven't been sick—none I've noticed—I guess you could have been and kept it quiet. Give it up, girl! Tell us everything!"

Vartann slipped an arm around Catherine's shoulder, whispering, "I think she would tell us if someone wasn't asking so many questions."

"Oh," Catherine looked startled for a second. "Tell, I'll stop—I'm so excited! When was the last time we had anyone in the lab having a baby? Men don't count—it's been years, I know! Oh, I am so relieved. You're not going to leave, are you? I'm in shock—I knew Grissom was announcing you two were leaving for Outer Mongolia or Tasmania! And now you're having a baby!"

"Catherine!" Jim almost shouted across the table, and when she placed fingers over her mouth, he nodded at Sara. "Now, it's your turn, dear."

Sara's grin was nearly splitting her face in half. "Fourth month—I've seen a doctor, had lots of tests. Everything is going along as it should," she gave them a due date and turned to Grissom, holding her hand, palm up, "And now I'll let the father give the rest of our news."

Grissom's shoulders lifted, his chest swelled as he smiled. "And we're having a boy," he said as he reached for a rolled up sonogram photo in his pocket, handing it first to Jim. "See there," his finger pointed to something, "a very fine boy!" His boast brought immediate whoops and laughs from all the men.

Catherine took the black and white image and studied it closely. "Are you sure? I was hoping for a girl."

"Next time," Grissom said, a huge smile breaking across his face.

His words were not out of his mouth when two cell phones rang—Nick and Sara reached for their phones.

_A/N: Thanks for reading! And another chapter soon!_


	18. Chapter 18

_A/N: Our two stories are coming together! Enjoy!_

**Being Here Chapter 18**

_Archie slipped his phone from his pocket_ and sent a quick text message to Nick and Sara. He was not sure what he should do—one thing he had done was put his fingerprints all over this computer; so had the girl standing at the desk. He decided to be friendly at the risk of making his current girlfriend unhappy. But she was smart and understanding.

"Did you say you found it when you moved in?" He asked as he clicked to the next video; he was sure there were several dozen stored on the computer.

Nicola nodded. "It was in a closet. I—I think—maybe it wasn't noticed because it was white and on a white shelf."

"What's your name? Mine's Archie."

She held out her hand. "Hi, Archie. I'm Nicola."

"And this is Amy," Archie indicated the librarian.

"Nice to meet you." The two women shook hands.

An old guy came to the desk and Amy turned to answer his question.

Archie said to Nicola, "This is a nice computer—I've found some stuff on here, but no name. If I give you my card—I really do work for the police—I'd like to take it into the lab, see if I can find the owner."

For the first time, Nicola frowned. She did not want to get tangled up with a policeman and started shaking her head.

"It's totally unofficial—I've got some equipment that I work with that can look at files, clean everything up. If I can't find a name, I promise I'll get it back to you. Even if I find a name, I'll leave it to you to contact the owner."

When she kept shaking her head, Archie added, "I'm not really a policeman—I work in the lab, doing computer stuff. I can check this for you this afternoon and call you later or you could meet me there—or I could leave it here for you to pick up. And I'll show you how to use it too."

With his last suggestion, Nicola reluctantly agreed. "If you'll show me how to use it—okay. Like using email and how to shop—order stuff. I'd like to do that."

Archie dug a card out of his pocket with the crime lab's address on it and wrote his name on the back side. "Would you like to come with me—meet me there?" He glanced in the direction of his girlfriend who was busy with another person. "I've got a few hours before my shift starts and it wouldn't take long."

By the time he got in his car, Nick and Sara had returned his call. He dialed Nick's number first and got an immediate answer with "Hey, man!" from Nick.

"You are not going to believe this," Archie said and related what he had discovered on an expensive laptop brought into the library by a "clueless girl" who said she had found it in a house she was renting.

"Do you have it with you now?" Nick asked.

Archie frowned. Nicola was following him to the lab; she also had the laptop. "She's got it—she's following me to the lab. I said I'd help her learn to use it—but you've got to see this! I know it's the same place from the mini-camera!"

When Nick reported his conversation with Archie to the others, everyone at the table forgot food, the bill was paid, and they drove to the lab as a motorcade where everyone spilled out of vehicles and waited in the parking garage.

"It may not be the right place," Nick cautioned.

"Archie isn't usually wrong," Grissom added.

Catherine remembered Sara's news of a baby and hugged her as they waited for Archie. She whispered, "I am so excited—can't believe you kept this a secret for four months! Are you feeling okay?"

Sara nodded. "I'm feeling fine—we wanted to be sure everything was okay before we told anyone."

Catherine hugged her again. "I'll do anything for you—you know that, right?"

Greg had been watching for Archie and whistled, pointing downward. "He's here—red car behind him—woman driver."

"We don't want to overwhelm them," Catherine said. "Nick, you and Sara go check this out." Suddenly, seeing the anticipation in everyone's face, she added "We don't want to scare this woman into running. If she's living in the same house, we want inside that house. You two go in with Archie, act casual—if there is anything we can check out, bring it to your office."

In minutes, Sara was leaning over Archie's shoulder as he booted up the laptop. He introduced the two women explaining he was helping Nicola with a computer problem. Convincingly naïve, Sara asked if Nicola would like a drink. "Water? Soda—I think we have root beer."

Nicola brightened. "I haven't had a root beer in ages—that would be nice."

Sara waved her hand. "Come with me. Archie doesn't need our help—I'll show you around the lab." The two met Nick, who swept an arm in the direction of the door as they left the room.

With his best drawl, he said "Good afternoon, ladies." Nicola giggled.

A few minutes later, Archie had the video playing on a large screen and pulled up the mini-camera recording on another screen. The others had joined him after seeing Sara with Nicola purposefully taking her on a round-about tour of the lab. Greg was entering the address password into a search of property; in seconds he had found the house and its owner.

"A Lance Delridge owns the house." He tapped a few more keys. "Rich guy—runs Trevor Enterprise." Greg snorted. "The condom company!"

"Well, I'll be damn," Brass said as the two screens showed different views of the same rooms.

The others stood quietly as they watched—a hand lighted candles. The same hands placed two wineglasses on a small table, reached into the refrigerator for a plate of cheeses and meats, and turned off the television. For three or four minutes the camera moved around the kitchen and living room.

"She's getting ready for company," Catherine said.

In seconds, the light changed—a door opened, and they heard a female voice say, "What kept you?" The voice was playful, flirty, and young. It was the voice of the murdered girl.

Nicola had been a bit surprised that the guy in the library had not been lying about his job. They had walked into the front door of a county building, she had received a visitor badge on his say-so; the woman at the front desk had called him by name and the dark haired woman acted as if she offered a root beer to a stranger every day. This lab was certainly different from the place she worked.

Sara was showing her the wanted posters—something Nicola had not seen since living in Alabama and looking at the FBI's Most Wanted posters hanging in the post office. Nicola knew Sara enjoyed her work by the way she showed off the lab, not in a boasting, prideful way but one of satisfaction with her work.

Sara introduced her to a guy named David Hodges and within minutes the guy was bragging about what he did; Nicola noticed a sly grin on Sara's face as the guy tried to hit on her. He was asking where she worked, was her accent from Texas, and before she could answer, Sara had taken her elbow and guided her into the hall.

"Every place has one of those!" Sara whispered as they left Hodges standing in the middle of the hall.

They made another stop in front of a large display of various weapons used in past cases—guns, knives, scissors, a hammer, several pens, rope, scarves, a bent mailbox, an old ear piece from eye glasses, even a page from a book.

"It's kind of macabre what people will use when committing a crime, for us to have this display, but it keeps our work interesting," Sara said after explaining several weapons.

An older man stuck his head around the corner. "Archie's looking for you two."

"Nicola, meet Jim Brass—Captain Brass to most people."

Nicola shook hands with Captain Brass, knowing the way the two greeted each other they were good friends. He pointed a finger at Sara. "We need to talk!"

While Sara had been giving Nicola the grand tour of the lab, others had gone into action. Nicola's entire work history was printed on two pages and on Catherine's desk. The girl had lived a law-abiding life in spite of, or because of, a childhood of abject poverty. Her first casino employment record showed four home addresses in her senior year of high school.

"She hit a pot of gold by moving to Vegas," Catherine said after reading the uncomplicated record.

"Yeah," Grissom agreed. "And what she's got, she was born with."

Nick chuckled. "A girl like that—nothing fake—an old guy like Delridge thinks he's found liquid gold."

Grissom leaned forward, shuffled a dozen photos of Delridge. "This guy has killed once, he'll do it again. We need to get this girl in a safe place until we…"

Greg Sanders literally flew into the office, papers lifted and scattered across the desk. A grin split his face.

"I love electronic banking! He used a debit card—in two hours he made purchases in three stores." He rattled off a list—trash bags, two rolls of duct tape, three different insect repellants, a quart of household insecticide. The insect repellant was listed by brand name thanks to a sophisticated inventory tracking system at the sporting goods store.

"We can't arrest him yet," Brass cautioned. "We need to get into that house. We need to talk to sweet little Nicola."

Grissom had been taking notes. "Now that I know what he used, the timeline narrows."

"What do we do with the girl?" asked Nick.

Everyone looked at him as if he had the answer which was how Archie and Sara ended up in an interview room with Nicola, the white laptop, and Nick sitting opposite them.

In a soft voice strongly overlaid with his Texas drawl, Nick explained what had been found on the laptop. He did not explain everything because the dead woman had recorded graphic images that shocked, appalled, and disgusted the seasoned investigators. Perversions involving leather, chains, feathers, hollow tubes and small mice made Catherine speechless, Nick and Grissom left the room at one point, and Archie and Greg stared slack-jawed at the screen until Catherine reached over and stopped the video.

Sara knew Nicola was tough; it was in her eyes that flashed and sparkled when she talked but when she listened, her bright eyes had a hard, harsh glint that revealed a not-so-tender life.

Nick did not ask questions about her relationship with Lance Delridge; he could guess. He knew wheels were turning for search warrants and surveillance monitoring of phones and computers. "Is there anything you want to get from the house? We're getting search warrants, setting up surveillance and you don't want to be in the house or where Delridge can find you."

"Are you sure he killed someone? He's sort of harmless in a perverted way."

"No," Nick answered, "but there's evidence he did. We want to search inside the house, see what we can find."

Nicola nodded as her heart sank. Her plans for her hair salon were sinking faster than the Titanic. She should have known this situation wasn't going to last. She did not care about Delridge; he was a pervert and she was using him, taking his money, just as he had been using her and now, he was probably a murderer. She blinked her eyes and dropped her face to hid sudden tears. She took a deep breath and lifted her head.

"I'll need to get some clothes—a few other things." She thought of her hidden box of money and the one place she had not cleaned. "Try looking underneath the refrigerator and oven—I didn't clean there."

"We're going to find you a place to stay—not a casino," Nick explained, "But some where safe and quiet." He looked at Sara.

"We can find you a place," Sara promised.

_A/N: If you've been reading, we want to hear from you! And another chapter soon! and smut, we haven't forgotten smut-its coming! _


	19. Chapter 19

**Being Here Chapter 19**

A safe quiet place—Sara called several women's shelters—all filled to overflowing. "We can take her out of town," Catherine suggested. "The sheriff will pay for a hotel for a week. We should have Delridge arrested by then—if not, we can buy her a ticket back to Alabama."

Archie was with Nicola in the break room showing her how to use the computer.

"Atlanta," Sara corrected. She had heard Nicola's dream of her hair salon when they went to the house. "I really feel for the girl—she's had a difficult life. And when she thought she was getting ahead—saving her money—she gets someone like Lance Delridge." When the others gave her quizzical looks, she said, "The girl has never had a break—it's sad that someone like Delridge picks her out and uses her as a sex slave and she thinks she's getting ahead!"

Grissom had watched and listened as everyone discussed the case, what to do with Nicola for a few days, and remembered what he had seen on the computer videos. He did not think Nicola had experienced or participated in what he had seen occurring between the dead girl and Delridge. And nothing explained why Delridge—if he was the murderer—had decided to kill the unknown woman. Now, Sara was emotional—he should have insisted someone else go with Nicola to the house, but Sara and Vartann had gotten out of the building before he had time to think. He shot a glance in her direction but she was doodling on a sheet of paper.

"Okay—we'll find a place," he said. He was thinking about contacting his mother; she still worked part-time at the local college and might be able to arrange a dorm room. Nicola could disappear among the students for a few days. But then he had another thought. "Wait—let me make a phone call—I think I can arrange a safe place." He left the room, leaving Sara, Nick, and Catherine with puzzled looks.

"What's he up to?" Catherine asked. "You can't take her home—you know that."

Nick and Sara nodded. They both knew several tragic consequences of getting too involved with witnesses, victims, even family members of lawbreakers and convicted felons. Both knew departmental rules were strict about providing shelter to a "material witness" and while Nicola did not fit the exact legal definition, she needed to stay out of sight while the house was searched and Delridge was brought in.

Greg appeared in the doorway of the office. "I've found a name—our woman registered her warranty!" He held out a piece of paper. "Chauncey Hilton. And I have not found anything else about her." He popped into the seat next to Sara. "When do we start on Nicola's house?"

"As soon as Brass gets the warrant."

Nick's words were not out of his mouth before the man appeared with a folded paper. "Warrant for the house—judge says he will sign one for Delridge's house and business based on what we find here."

Quickly, they all moved; everyone wanted to work this case.

"What about Nicola?" Nick asked.

"I've got her—where are you going?" Grissom appeared behind Brass.

Brass waved the warrant. "I'm going to the house—come along. Looks like your wife is going too."

Grissom nodded. "I'll be there later—let me take care of Nicola first. I've found her a place to stay."

Brass waved and headed out with the others. Grissom walked into the room where Archie and Nicola were working and talked to Nicola for a few minutes, before she stood up. Archie closed the computer and handed it to her. What he heard caused him to smile; no one was going to believe where Nicola was staying and Grissom has just asked him to keep it quiet for a few days.

Once the team got into the rented house, it took less than an hour to find evidence of a bloody event in the house. Nicola had been right about underneath the refrigerator, as well as under the cabinets, and in a floor vent—hidden blood splatter and a few matted hairs indicated forceful blows occurred after she fell to the floor just as they had heard on the video.

"She's a blonde," Sara commented as she carefully placed a few strands of hair in an envelope. "Maybe that's why no one recognized her."

"It would appear the entire place was wiped down with bleach," Nick said with a frustrated sigh. "Or at least all the exposed surfaces."

The team kept working, scraping paint from ceilings and walls, taking plumbing apart, pulling up carpet. The longer she worked, the more the destruction upset Sara. She had seen how proud Nicola had been of the place and now it was being destroyed in a few hours.

After a quiet suggestion from Grissom, Nick and Catherine insisted Sara take hair and blood evidence back to the lab; it took another hour to match blood and hair to the body in the morgue. Chauncey Hilton had been in the house. By then, everyone had returned to the lab bringing in more evidence—most of it eventually proved to be nothing probative but they worked hours testing and analyzing bits and pieces of carpet fibers, sheetrock, and debris from pipes and vents.

Mid-day, Catherine called a halt to all work and sent everyone home to sleep. "We'll work better if we are rested," she insisted. "Delridge isn't going anywhere—he has a big charity event today. We don't want him to realize he has a problem."

_Once home, Sara stood in the shower _trying to wash away some of the exhaustion of the long shift. Childhood memories popped into her brain, triggered by her encounter with Nicola, synapses fired images and emotions. She had seen her self in Nicola's eyes and words as the girl talked of having a good job and a nice place to live and how quickly she closed off questions about her family.

It was the same responses Sara had given for years. As a child, Sara had loved her mother fiercely but confusion had taken over at some point. Sara looked like her mother, dark eyes, dark hair—she remembered softness that eventually turned into withdrawal and closed doors; distant, blank eyes became the norm. As an adult, almost stepping into her own dark abyss, Sara had asked the painful question: Did her parents ever love her? The answer was an uncomplicated "I'll never know". After her father died at the hands of her mother, everything changed—the normal was no longer normal. Years later, she had realized she had to face her past to move forward. Maybe, she hoped, life would change for Nicola—in a good way. In the shower, she leaned against the cool tiles while warm water hit her body. She had also learned not to brood; the hot shower relaxed her muscles, calmed her mind, and she emerged from the bathroom feeling much better.

The fabulous smell coming from the kitchen led her nose to Grissom stirring marinara sauce.

"Feed me pasta and I'll do anything!" She said with a laugh. His hand came to wrap around her as he pulled her against him.

"You okay—all this can be draining."

"I'm fine—really. What happened to Nicola?"

"She's safe." Grissom kept stirring the sauce.

"Where?" Sara asked, perplexed as he looked away and busied himself with the sauce. "Come on, please say you did not take this girl to your mother?"

"Oh, no!" Shaking his head, his expression was one of truth. Then his grin turned to a sly, clever one—one he made when he knew he had the upper hand in keeping secrets.

Sara played along, saying, "You were not gone long—so not out of town. Shelters are full. Hotels all do business with Delridge, so that's ruled out. Bed and breakfast?" The expression on his face stayed the same—smug. "Okay, stud muffin—where did you take her? I deserve to know!"

He plated pasta and dipped a ladle into sauce. "One more guess—similar backgrounds." He handed her the plate but did not let go when it was in her hands. "Bread is hot."

Sara stepped back. "You took Nicola to Heather's?" His grin changed slightly and she knew she was right. "Nicola and Heather—why am I not surprised?" She took the plate and sat down, softly laughing; she knew Grissom was brilliant and this move was one of a mastermind. He placed bread beside her plate. "Did you tell anyone else?"

He shook his head, "Only Archie knows and I ask him not to tell. Heather was more than happy to help."

"And your explanation was?"

"I told her Nicola was a young woman who needed to stay out of sight for a few days, that she had done nothing wrong, just needed a safe place." He grinned. "And knowing Heather she'll know everything there is to know about Nicola in a few hours."

Sara wagged her fork at her husband. "You and Heather! You've always had a soft spot for each other."

He placed his plate across from Sara's. "What can I say—she's a friend. And she sends her best for you and baby boy Grissom." Still smiling, he forked a bite of sauce and pasta into his mouth.

_By evening, Brass placed a call to have Delridge picked up_. He was found at a charity golf tournament dinner; Delridge did not play golf, but his wife insisted he show up for certain charity events, and as he got into the detective's car, he waved at his wife's friends, thinking there was business related trouble or an employee with a legal problem. After all, the officers did not attempt to place handcuffs on him, just asked if he would accompany them.

Delridge had to wait almost an hour before anyone came into the austere room even though there were plenty of people passing in the hallway. When Catherine entered the room, he made an effort to lift himself from the chair but seeing the look on her face, he decided she would not appreciate his gesture and sat back down. When she did not smile as she introduced herself and the man behind her, he tried to think of what an employee could have done to cause such grim appearances. He was certain he had met the blonde woman before and knew Captain Brass had been around Vegas for years.

While Brass said the usual words about recording the interview, date, time, and place, Delridge's mind kept running through events trying to remember the woman.

For several minutes, Brass asked questions about Delridge's business, what he did, how many people he employed, where he lived; Delridge relaxed slightly.

"Okay, what's going on? My business get burglarized or one of my employees in trouble?" The man's fingers danced on the table.

Without saying another word, Catherine slipped a photograph out of a brown folder and placed it in front of him. "Is this a house you own, Mr. Delridge?"

Damn, he thought, Nicola has done something.

"Sure," he said. "Got a waitress renting it."

"What's her name?" Brass asked.

"Nicola—Nicola Newman—works at The Palms, I think."

The blonde pulled another piece of paper out of the folder. Either the angle of her face jogged his memory, or his recollection of a party snapped in just the right way, he knew who she was. "Sam Braun's daughter—I thought I recognized you," he said with a smile. Catherine did not return his smile.

She turned a photograph so he could see it. The face was familiar in a mannequin kind of way, wrong hair color, but he steeled his face for what was to come. "Mr. Delridge, do you recognize this woman? Perhaps you knew her as Chauncey Hilton."

Delridge squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. Several minutes passed before he sat forward. "I'll talk to you," he looked at Catherine, "but not him."

"No problem, but he stays here."

_A/N: Next chapter-smut! Promise! Thanks so much for reading and reviews!_


	20. Chapter 20

_A/N: Another chapter! So read, review, let us know what you think-and little bit of sweet smut stuck in here too!_

**Being Here Chapter 20**

Nicola was a little startled when an older man entered the break room, causing her to catch her breath for a second until the man was greeted by Archie. She was not sure who the old guy was even after he introduced himself as Gil Grissom, saying "I've found a safe place for you" and as he explained where she was going, she noticed Archie's quick smile.

A psychologist, a friend of his, had agreed for Nicola to stay at her house for as long as needed. A psychologist—fancy name for a social worker, she thought. A long time ago she had learned about psychologists when she had been in state care for a year. Her mother had nearly been killed by a boyfriend and all the case workers and foster parents decided she and her sisters had been traumatized by the event so off to a psychologist they went. Nicola and her sisters were poor, and smart. They knew if they acted emotional or depressed they would never get to live together; their mother and grandma would lose state support for dependent children. So when the psychologist ask questions, she got positive statements the girls learned from mimicking other children in school—they studied, they acted as if life was normal and, as the state was overrun with homeless children, they were returned to their mother.

As they drove across town, Nicola realized nothing was ever the same after that. Her mother continued to have boyfriends, mostly bad ones, but her mind had been affected by the beating. She drank more cheap liquor. She no longer "fixed herself up" to give a pretense of respectability. She no longer worked off the books as a cashier at a local convenience store. If Nicola had thought her life was difficult, it became more so after her mother became simple-minded. When she was fifteen, her mother delivered a baby boy—suddenly had a stomach ache and a few hours later, in the small town emergency room, she had the baby. Nicola was humiliated—small town gossip would spread the news like wildfire—yet no one mentioned it. Her mother came home without the baby and two days later a new television set was delivered. Her grandma made one comment: "We'll enjoy this a lot more than another mouth to feed."

After the disappearance of the baby, Nicola knew she would leave her sisters as soon as she could with the promise to return for them one day.

Nicola was snapped back to her current situation by the stopping of the car—in front of what had to be the oldest house in Nevada, she thought. She gawked at the massive brick structure so unlike the McMansions of the past decade. She must have remained in her seat too long because the man opened her door for her and extended his hand for her small bag.

As they walked to the porch she said, "I didn't know Vegas had houses like this."

He chuckled and rang the doorbell.

When the door opened, Nicola thought the woman must have been watching for them to arrive; her second thought was how beautiful the woman was. She knew the woman and the man were old friends by the way they greeted each other. The woman, the psychologist, introduced as Dr. Heather Kessler, asked about "Sara". Must be his wife, Nicola thought, because his answer was: "She fine and pregnant!" which brought genuine smiles to both faces, and more comments and questions about health and due dates from the psychologist.

Nicola dropped her head as they talked, hiding her own amusement. The old guy had fire in the furnace to go with that smoky hair on his head, she mused.

A few minutes later, their attention turned to her. At least he did not go into great detail in front of her, saying Nicola had provided valuable information for a pending arrest and needed a safe place for a few days.

The woman did not ask questions—Nicola guessed she already knew enough—as she led them upstairs. Nicola could not keep from gaping, trying to take everything in, mesmerized by the velvet voiced psychologist who bore no resemblance to the ones in Nicola's past.

Dr. Kessler opened a door to a large sunlit bedroom with heavy wood furniture that smelled clean and fresh even though it was old. "There are several empty bedrooms but I thought you might enjoy this one," she said. Nicola stepped into the room. The man remained in the hall. "The windows look over the garden and the back stairs to the kitchen are near this room. The bathroom is through here," the woman smiled and Nicola realized again how beautiful she was.

"I'll leave you to get settled," the psychologist smiled again, her voice as smooth as cream from a cup. "I'll be downstairs. Come down when you are ready and we'll have tea."

Nicola thanked both and left the door open as the two disappeared. She heaved her bag onto the bed; she had packed four shirts and three pairs of pants, her toiletries and underwear, and her stash of cash. Walking to the window, she peeked between lace curtains to a backyard filled with greenery—and there was not much green growing in Vegas—knowing the trees and flowers in this yard had certainly been planted for a very long time.

While not depressed—a state she had long ago left for others to experience—she did know she was in a predicament. She had learned a lot about Delridge from the girls at work. Today she had heard enough, been asked a lot of questions about Delridge to know he was a big man in Vegas—a rich and powerful one—and what had been found on the computer was bad, making him a murder suspect, and she was the one who had handed the computer over to the police.

Turning back to the room, she sighed. She would hang up her clothes, hide her money in her bag, and see what this psychologist person served as tea. She could use a good, strong sweet tea with plenty of ice.

_Gil Grissom knew he had been put on earth to love the woman beside him_. He nuzzled his face into her hair, damp and curled from her shower, smelling faintly of citrus. She had gone to sleep while he cleaned the kitchen and walked the dog. Another hour had passed as he showered and talked to Catherine who had a quiet laugh when he told her where he had taken Nicola.

Catherine would work a double shift, he thought, as she outlined plans for searching Delridge's house and interviewing him. Nick and Greg along with several guys from swing shift were on their way to the Delridge mansion and Delridge was cooling his heels in an interview room.

"Sara needs to rest," she added. "Everything is okay—we didn't get to talk with all that's happening."

With assurances his wife was fine, Grissom had crawled into bed. Instinctively, Sara scooted closer just as he rolled to touch her.

"Finally," she muttered, turning her face to his. Her hand covered the one he had placed at her waist and brought it to her left breast. Automatically, his thumb caressed her nipple. A low hum emanated from deep within Sara's lungs and she turned her body to his.

"Love me," she whispered. Her eyes opened revealing luminous pools of tender affection; a quick smile played across her lips before her hand brought his face to hers.

With the speed of lightening, Grissom's body responded—from her first drowsy word, the touch of her body, the passionate kiss; he had been captivated by this woman for so long his body would ache with desire when he could not be physically with her. He could quote a hundred lines from poets who tried to describe this kind of love and none had described it as truly what it was.

Grissom smiled as he returned the kiss, thinking of Shakespeare and Neruda, Browning, Burns, and Byron, Poe and Yeats. He spoke the words of T. S. Eliot: "To whom I owe the leaping delight that quickens my senses in our waking time, the breathing in unison of lovers whose bodies smell of each other, who think the same thoughts without the need of speech and babble the same speech without need of meaning…"

Sara opened to him in unimaginable ways—her eyes welcomed him with love, her mouth with warmth, her breasts rose and fell with his heart beat. Her hips fit snugly against him; her legs wrapped around his thighs, her foot caressed his calf. The pulsating rhythm within her core pulled his erection to its entrance—the key, she had once called him, the key to passion and love she had not known before him.

His lips left hers, seeking to taste the silky softness of her neck, the valley between her breasts. His thumb and finger played with her nipple, gently teasing at its sudden firmness. He took one between his lips, rolling his tongue gently. He heard a soft moan; one hand moved lower, below her belly as she lifted her hips and moaned again.

"I want you," she murmured as his fingers threaded and parted the sensitive cleft of her femininity.

He smiled. "You are ready," he replied as he lifted his face to hers. His fingers played between her legs; his mouth and tongue teased hers.

Drawn like a moth to a flame, he entered her, slowly, easily, tight muscles surrounding his penis, drawing, pulling, bringing him inside her body.

He mumbled, "Where I belong" and heard the softest, sweetest sound he could imagine when Sara giggled.

Hours later, after they had slept a few hours, he stretched his hand across her belly, from crest to crest of her hips. "You are growing a little bit here—my fingers have to extend a little longer than just a few weeks ago."

Sara's eyebrows lifted, a smile widened across her face. "Lil' Gilbert is growing." She giggled as he made a face.

"Not Gilbert—we've talked about this. He needs his own name."

"A boy should share his father's name," she insisted.

"Not the first name—you can pick any other name but Gilbert." When her face registered surprise at his capitulation of naming his son, he continued, "You get to name the boy—I'll name the girl." He gave her a pleasing, satisfied smile.

Sara leaned over and kissed him. "We have not had the first one and you are talking about a second—what is this, Stud muffin? Think you are up to making another one." The giggle she made was an aphrodisiac to his brain, traveling immediately to his groin. Her hand slipped downward, fingers surrounded him, caressed him, making him groan as she massaged and kneading, gently, as he hardened again. His response caused another giggle as he rose to the occasion.

_A/N: Lady Heather-now Dr. Kessler, Nicola safe for a while, Sara healthy, and a little smut-what else could you ask for? Now review! Thanks so much! :)_


	21. Chapter 21

_**A/N: A longer chapter-lots of ground to cover! Enjoy!**_

**Being Here Chapter 21**

Lance Delridge looked Catherine Willows in the eye. "Chauncey lived in that house at one time—disappeared without paying her rent! Left the place trashed—had to get a cleaning crew in there to clean out her mess—cost me a silver dime for that too!" He sat back in the chair. "I hope you've found the bitch—I've got cleaning and painting bills she can pay!"

Catherine's glare did not yield as he talked. She raised her hand, a signal for Archie, who brought a laptop into the room and keyed up one of the videos.

"Mr. Delridge, we've seen what you and Chauncey Hilton did in your house. We've also seen video of what appears to be her murder." Catherine said as Archie turned the screen so Delridge could see it. "We have her body in the morgue."

Delridge blinked, once, twice, before his face settled into a mask. He shrugged. "We played—enjoyed doing things together. Adults do it everywhere—use that computer and you can find the same stuff on the internet." His expensive loafers did a tap dance on the floor. He shrugged again. "We got along fine—you got video of that, I guess—so why would I kill her?"

Catherine and Brass remained quiet; the video played for several minutes but no one watched. With a nod from Catherine, Archie cut the show. Finally, Delridge said, "You got something to charge me with—I'm calling my lawyer. Otherwise, I'm going to work."

Brass reached into the folder and brought out several receipts. Catherine turned the papers so Delridge could see them. "We got your debit and credit card receipts and you purchased several of the same items used to wrap the body—and a lot of insect repellent—about the time Chauncey Hilton disappeared."

Delridge's lips formed a thin hard line. "People buy a lot of things—including insect repellent. Now, if you are charging me with buying Off outta season, I'm taking a pee break and calling my lawyer." He waited three seconds before shoving his chair back and standing up.

"We got a warrant for your clothes, to look for specific items—at your house now," Brass said.

Delridge paused for a moment, his mind working out his response. "You can have all my clothes and tomorrow I'll buy more." He walked out of the room.

Brass and Archie looked at Catherine who said, "We'll find something—his clothes, the tape, something."

Archie said "He seems sure of himself."

"Don't they all," grouched Brass.

"You think he did it?"

Brass stood up. "Yeah, he never asked how she died."

Another hour passed before Nick reported—nothing. In the large house with closets as big as normal-sized bedrooms, the CSIs found no gray duct tape, no insect repellent or insecticides, no cheap trash bags—nothing came close to matching what Chauncey Hilton had been wrapped in. They did find shoes and men's dark pants and collected all of it to test for blood and insecticides. They searched Mrs. Delridge's closets, finding nothing.

"It's almost as if he's cleaned house of anything similar," Nick complained when he talked to Catherine. "We're swamped, Cath, do you think Sara would check out his business?"

Catherine agreed to call Sara. "We didn't hold Delridge—we've got to find something. He took a cab to a casino. Insisted he and the girl enjoyed each other."

"There's got to be something," Nick said before returning to his work.

Llllll

_Heather Kessler was still smiling about Grissom's news_ as she set about preparing for her unexpected guest. She had seen too many young women like Nicola; she knew without asking what the girl was doing for money, and she knew the girl was from somewhere in the south by the faint accent in her words. Heather brewed tea, added lots of sugar before it cooled, and plated recently baked cookies she kept for Allison.

As she set out glasses, plates, and napkins, she remembered a depressed and miserable Gil Grissom showing up in the rain one night to talk about a case—or so he said. Quickly, Heather realized the man's world had fallen apart. She had listened as he talked about Sara and she recognized a man deeply in love. She laughed softly as she recalled the events of that night; Grissom had talked, she had listened, they had finally laughed together. For the first time in years, they were equals, friends—whatever was in the past stayed there. He was not an investigator, she was not his therapist, and they had talked for hours about dreams and loves and living.

That night he had been terrified of losing the one person he loved more than life itself. Today, Grissom was a changed man—he had found new life and love with Sara as she had found another life with her granddaughter.

Heather heard quiet footsteps on the stairs and filled glasses with ice. When Nicola entered the kitchen, Heather's welcoming smile covered up her thoughts. The girl's efforts at radiating self-confidence and self-assurance succeeded; Heather knew from her own history that Nicola had spent hours watching others to obtain the poise and posture that appeared so naturally in the way she stood and moved.

"I've got iced tea—sweet—and my granddaughter's favorite cookies." Heather said as she extended a cold glass tinkling with ice.

Nicola's slight nod of her head indicated thanks.

"I have a sun porch—let's go there." Heather led the way to the glass enclosed room carrying the plate of cookies with her. Over the years Heather had learned a great deal about the art of conversation—listen, tailor the conversation, and talk very little. As soon as the two women settled into chairs, she asked, "Do you have what you need?"

Nicola nodded again, silently admiring the beauty of the woman across the table, and then asked a question. "Do you know why I'm here?" She nibbled on a cookie, kept one hand in her lap, her back ramrod straight.

"I don't know the details—just that you need a safe place and a friend asked if I would help." Heather's voice and smile caused Nicola to look at her but she remained quiet. "For years he's worked in law enforcement, so I'd guess you are a witness." Heather could see a slight relaxing of shoulders. "Dr. Grissom is one of the good guys out there."

"Is he a psychologist too? He said you were."

"Oh, no, not a psychologist—he's an entomologist—he studies bugs, insects."

Confusion clouded Nicola's face. "He works for the police—what does he do?"

Heather wrinkled her nose causing Nicola to laugh. "Catches bad bugs—spiders, roaches, mosquitoes—that break the law," Heather said with a laugh. Nicola sniggered. Heather explained what Grissom did without complicating terms—a scientist, insects and bodies, investigations involving insects, and now consulting. It took all of one minute for Heather's explanation.

"Well, it isn't insects with me—I found a computer in a house I live in—lived in, I guess." Nicola sighed; Heather saw the distress in and around the young woman's eyes. "Thought I'd learn to use it and—just my luck—got a guy who works for the police to look at it." Her eyebrows danced. "I was in the library—who would believe that? And he saw something that caused all of this." Her hand pointed to her chest and waved upward. "I know it's something Lance did—I mean he never hurt me or anything—he's into kinky stuff—but he's more funny than anything else."

Heather's hand went up, "I am not your therapist, but what kind of kinky stuff?"

"Oh, weird stuff—tying my arms to the bed while he danced around in funny looking pants—wearing feathers and wanting his fanny smacked." Nicola giggled. "It wasn't as bad as it sounds but if you've never heard of it I guess it sounds kinda perverted."

Her comments caused Heather to laugh—Grissom knew what he was doing when he asked for this favor, she thought. She said, "Oh, honey, nothing surprises me anymore!"

Nicola relaxed a little more. She liked this woman and for the first time in weeks, someone seemed interested, even encouraging, so she continued, "I work at The Palms—make good tips and when Lance came along, I guess he liked the way I look and offered me the house—rent free." She waggled her hand. "Pretty soon we were play acting some of his goofy ideas and he paid my bills." Nicola's hand covered her mouth as she giggled. "I guess this sounds pretty shocking to someone like you—but it's just play acting—more," she made quotation marks with her hands "drama than the actual act—it was with him anyway. He'd buy these outfits for us to wear—really silly things—and I could save my money for what I really want to do."

Heather's face revealed nothing. "I'm not shocked by much, Nicola. Would your Lance be mid-fifties, has a business supplying certain items—condoms, I think…"

Nicola's smile brightened her face. "You know him? Lance Delridge! That's his business—supplies condoms to all the hotels and casinos in Vegas—or so he claimed." Nicola leaned back in her chair and laughed. "He kept telling me he was wealthy and knew everyone in town! And you really know him?" For the first time, Heather recognized genuine amusement in Nicola's voice. "I figured he exaggerated the truth, but he was generous—gave me a credit card to use—paid all my expenses, even wanted me to quit my job but I didn't do that." Her voice changed as she frowned. "Guess that's a good thing since it looks like he might be sitting in jail for something—I think its murder." She leaned forward, saying "I don't want to bore you with my problems, but it will be weeks before I can get a full schedule, longer before I get overtime again. And I had gotten the house so it really looked nice—saving my money." The tea, the cookies, the quiet porch, the warmth that seemed to radiate from Dr. Kessler or weeks without having roommates caused Nicola to talk about her job, the rented house and how she had it decorated, and how she found the hidden laptop. When she paused to drink tea, Heather asked:

"What is it you really want to do?"

With that question Nicola launched into her plan just as she had explained to the tall brunette woman who had gone to the house with her. Based on appearances of both women's hair, Heather knew about hair salons so Nicola went into greater detail—colorants, highlights, tints, cuts, sharing what she knew about renting versus buying her own place. Heather pushed the plate of cookies near Nicola; once she left the table and brought tea and paper and pens back with her.

She said, "You need a business plan," as she began to take notes.

Llllll

"_It's Catherine," Grissom said as he passed the phone across the bed_.

They lay in tangled sheets, sans clothing; he on his belly, Sara on her back. They had slept again after making love in the unhurried, easy way of long time lovers and as Sara answered the call, Grissom scooted next to her and began kissing and tasting the surprisingly erotic area behind his wife's ear. Her voice never wavered as she talked to Catherine, but immediately after hanging up, she wrapped arms around his neck, locked legs around his hips and pushed herself on top of him.

"We have to go, lover boy. Duty calls. Everyone is searching the Delridge house and Catherine wants me—us—to head over to his office, see what we can find. Vartann and a couple of unis will meet us there." She leaned over and kissed him at the same time she wiggled her butt against his belly and slid herself to his groin. "And no, we are not having sex before we go," she said as she rocked her hips several times. "Well, maybe if I could get something going down here we could have a quickie." She giggled as she rolled off him. "I'm going to shower—join me," her broad grin seductively enticing. "Come on, sex god—you're good for a quick one!"

It took only one invitation for him to roll out of bed and follow her. As hot water washed over them, his mouth closed over hers as hands traced possessively, hungrily down backs, to shoulders and hips. He found the melting center between her legs and stroked her until she gasped; pulling his mouth against hers, their tongues intertwined. He moved inside her with long, hard thrusts, slowing building an exhilarating pressure in their bodies.

Instinctively Sara wrapped legs around him; her hands gripped his back as he went deeper, so deep she thought that for a moment they were one. Seconds later, her head fell back against the tiles as her climax slammed through her and Grissom's strong arms held her. That's what it took to pull Grissom over the edge with her as his own release surged through him. The sensation of his orgasm was so strong, so exquisitely intimate, that it caused Sara to convulse one last time before she went limp.

Grissom's senses return and it dawned on him he really wanted to collapse but was leaning against Sara, his hand braced on one side of her warm, wet body which was precariously balanced between him and the wall. Gently, reluctantly, he pulled free of her tight, incredibly soft core. He managed to wrap an arm around her waist as he brought both upright.

Sara's eyes remained closed as she gave him an odd smile. "Rather intense, dear."

He chuckled. "Unbelievable—indescribable—I'll be lucky if I can get my pants on!"

"And Catherine expects us at Delridge's business in thirty minutes—I think that's fifteen minutes now."

Grissom kept one arm around Sara as he reached for her soap. "A quickie was your idea," he said with a laugh.

She giggled, finally standing on her own. "Traffic—lots of traffic."

_The building they entered echoed with silence_; the low lights in the lobby revealed nothing about what business occupied the area. The security company guard had opened the door and Vartann and two uniforms waited. The guard explained the lay-out of the building—parking on the ground level behind the lobby, offices on the second and third floors. He was fairly certain Lance Delridge's office was on the top floor.

"What are you looking for in the building" the security guard asked.

Sara responded, "I'll know it when I see it." Which was the truth; she and Grissom had engaged in a brisk conversation during the drive over. They had a list of specifics to search for—tape, insecticides, anything from the videos, anything that looked similar to what they had seen in the videos—something that might have the blood, tissue, a fingerprint, of Chauncey Hilton. But when one applied the turning-over-everything approach to solving a crime, one had to turn over a lot of stuff.

On the third floor, they found the office of the company's president and principle owner. Three desks sat in the first office, two bathrooms opened from a short hallway leading to an office that took up half the space on one end of the building. It was ornately decorated in at least five periods of furniture from its antique looking black and gold desk to three modern cube chairs near the windows and a crystal chandelier hanging in the center of the room.

Everyone stopped for several minutes and stared. One of the men said, "This is tacky."

"Yeah," mumbled everyone else.

As Sara and Grissom searched the room, opening drawers and cabinets, the others wandered back to the front room. Opening a door, Grissom said, "Hey, a closet—dressing area, maybe."

Sara joined him, shining her flashlight on a number of expensive coats, jackets, pants, shirts, and at the back they found costumes—made of leather, latex, brocades, shiny satin.

Sara pulled straps of leather from the rack, a long codpiece, tangled in the leather, fell to the floor. "We're looking for clothing." She grinned.

Grissom's eyebrow lifted along with an encouraging grin. "I'll send one of the uniforms to get more bags."

Sara continued checking the closet as he left. Five minutes later, she found a folded piece of paper stuck into an inside pocket of Lance Delridge's coat. She read: _Lance, I want a million dollars—that's not much for what I've done…_

There was no sound but something shifted in the atmosphere of the building. A whisper of disturbed air wafted through the open door. She stepped to the doorway, hearing nothing. She walked to the short hallway and called, "Grissom! Vartann!"

**_A/N: Reviews will get the next chapter quicker, faster, sooner-so if you haven't yet, please do so! If you are one of the faithful who always do-THANK YOU! Tell us what you think!_**


	22. Chapter 22

_**A/N: Soon-and here it is! **_

**Being Here Chapter 22**

Everyone working the case wanted Lance Delridge arrested with irrefutable proof—evidence that could not be denied. Every aspect of his life was examined—almost. If they had talked about his mental health, most would agree he was not entirely sane, but they would not have suspected how truly deranged the man was. He had left the police department in a crazed state—gambling at one casino before heading to another, losing several thousand dollars in each place. He did not seem to notice the two policemen who followed him as he got into a cab for a five minute ride across the street. He continued gambling, wandering from table to table before he sat down in front of a slot machine. With each move, he became more disheveled, more rambling in his speech, less aware of his surroundings.

Later, the policemen would say they lost him in the crush of people moving around; more likely it happened when Delridge realized two cops were keeping tabs on him and he slipped their watching eyes. He quickly headed to the place where he was 'king'—his office. Instead of going directly to the top floor, he entered from the parking garage, missing the security guard standing out front, and went to the small cafeteria on the second floor. He emptied his pockets of change and dollars buying candy bars and a canned soda from machines. He sat in the dark eating and drinking for some time as he tried to figure out what to do next.

Obviously, he decided, the police had no real evidence that he had killed Chauncey Hilton or they would have arrested him. He had a stash of cash in his office, stuck in shoes he kept in his closet. Not enough to disappear, and in his mind, he had no reason to leave town, but it was enough to keep him busy with whores for a few days. He gobbled the last candy bar and headed to the elevator. He almost pressed the button before realizing that using the elevator would alert the security guard to someone being in the building. Last thing he wanted was to talk to some knuckle head guard who thought he worked for the FBI. He turned and walked to the opposite end of the building where the stairway went to the roof and a door opened directly into his office on the third floor.

Lance took his time climbing the stairs. He had always wanted a helicopter landing on the roof but his wife complained loudly about the expense anytime he had brought it up. He wished he had a helicopter up there now—he would fly over Vegas and piss on everyone. He laughed, a little too loud, a little too excited; the sound echoed in the concrete shaft and resonated beyond the fire door. The men standing in the outer office on the third floor heard the unexpected sound, quickly glanced at each other for positive confirmation, and headed for the hallway. Grissom followed.

_Sara picked up her kit and returned to the closet_. Just as she was entering the area, she heard movement behind her and turned. In the dim light of the office, for a second, she thought Grissom had found a door hidden in the panels of the office. But then the man had on the wrong clothes, his hair was longer and whiter and he did not move as her husband did. She placed her hand on her hip before remembering she had not worn her gun.

At the same time, Lance Delridge realized someone was standing in his office; the lights from the secretary's office silhouetted the body of a female in dark clothing.

"Who are you?" He shouted. His madness leaped several levels toward insanity. "Who are you? How did you get in my office? Get out of here! What are you doing? Those are my things!"

Sara's hand stretched out when she realized who the man was. "Mr. Delridge, I'm with the crime lab—we have a search warrant for your property." She took a tentative step forward; he halted. "You need to calm down—leave the office while I do my work. One of the officers will escort you downstairs."

"You shouldn't be in here! This is my office! My things! Expensive stuff—not cheap junk—my things! I never brought any whores here! This is my business! Cheap whores stayed at the house! What are you doing here?" He paced as he shouted.

Sara remained in the beam of light, thinking the men had to hear Delridge shouting. His arm swept across his desk and a dozen things scattered across the floor. Where was Grissom, Sara asked herself. Or Vartann—surely all four did not go get evidence bags.

"Sara!" Grissom's voice boomed as he yelled her name. "Are you okay?"

"Who is that?" Delridge's frantic pacing increased. His feet stepped on something that had fallen from the desk. "Who else is here? Who's looking for you?" He kicked an object toward Sara.

"I'm okay—Mr. Delridge is in his office," Calmly, Sara answered Grissom, never turning away as she took a step backward. "He's upset we are here." She could hear whispered words between at least two people. "There's another door to the office—near the desk," she called. "He came in that way!" Even with her voice raised, Sara kept her tone cool, as if she were only mildly interested in what was happening.

"This is my desk—my desk! My desk, you hear! All of this stuff is mine! You will never get it—no cheap whore is going to get any of this! You are no better than any of the others—I'm not giving you anything—nothing else! I'll kill you first, you stupid bitch! No one will ever look for you—you are no body!" He shrieked. "You think I don't know what you did—I saw that video you made! It doesn't show how I killed that cheap whore—nothing, you hear! You'll never get it—a million dollars for a cheap whore—you'll be dead too!"

Sara realized the man was lost; lucid reality no longer existed in his mind. A howling sound came from his throat just as a gun shot fired; Sara had been expecting it, but it was not fast enough. The chaos of panic overwhelmed Delridge; the man leaped with the speed of a leopard toward the hidden door and disappeared. Almost instantly, Grissom and Vartann were in the room.

Before he could reach her, Sara ran to her husband. "I'm fine—he's gone—out that door." Vartann followed Delridge, gun in his hand. "He's lost his mind, Gil. He thought I was Chauncey—or Nicola."

"Was he armed? Did he have a gun?" Grissom asked as he tightly held her. "You sure you're okay?" His hands searched her body to confirm her words.

She nodded her head so vigorously her hair seemed to bounce with reflected light. "No gun—I didn't see a gun."

Later, they agreed what happened next had been a simultaneous action with neither leading the other. They followed Vartann into the stairwell. They looked up, hearing a banging door. Delridge, in his disoriented state, or driven by some instinct to seek higher ground, had fled to the roof. Together, their footsteps pounded on the stairs. Grissom stepped onto the roof first, shining his flashlight ahead of them.

"Lou! Lou!" He called.

They turned when they heard wheezing to see Delridge a short distance away, his face contorted in a mask of madness, his body twisting from side to side, arms outstretched.

Sara shouted, "Mr. Delridge, don't move—we're here to help you!"

Puzzled, Grissom quietly asked, "Where is Vartann?" He took a few steps toward Delridge. "Sara, find Lou—call for help." It took a few seconds for Sara to realize Grissom's fear—had Vartann been pushed over the side of the building. She reached for her phone and stepped in the opposite direction. Before she hit a number, a scream erupted from Delridge. He jumped to the edge of the roof and launched himself into the night.

Perhaps he had intended to leap onto the adjoining rooftop, but he had made a disastrous error. He went over the edge that faced the street. The long, howling scream ended in silence a heartbeat later.

Grissom looked over the roof's edge. Delridge's body had landed almost directly in front of their vehicle. Vartann wasn't there. He turned as Sara joined him, her phone still in her hand. She hit the emergency speed-dial calling for assistance. Grissom did not wait for her to finish as he locked his arms around her. When she tried to say something, he pushed her face against his shoulder and held her tightly.

"I was terrified, Sara."

Sara, voice muted by her face being pressed against his jacket, mumbled, "Where is Vartann?" Grissom loosened his grip and flashed his light around the rooftop.

The rooftop door opened and one of the uniformed officers appeared, gun drawn. "What's going on?" He called.

Grissom answered, "Delridge went over the side. Look for Vartann!"

The three ran to the perimeter of the roof; Grissom kept Sara's hand firmly gripped in his as their flashlights flickered around the roof.

"There—behind the a-c unit," the officer said when he spotted a shoe, then a leg that belonged to Lou Vartann.

The three bent over the unconscious detective. They heard the arrival of others as sirens wailed from four directions and vehicles screeched to a halt below them.

Sara said, "He's breathing. He doesn't have an obvious wound." Her hands ran along his arms, his back. She touched his hair.

Grissom checked his legs. "His ankle," he said, "It's broken. Look." He pointed at the top of the air conditioning unit where a long dent indicated a fight or a collision.

Vartann groaned as Sara's hands raked his hair away from his face. The policeman called for medics and within minutes a dozen people joined them on the roof. For fifteen minutes, controlled chaos enveloped the area as more people arrived on the roof. Finally, Vartann was lifted to a stretcher making no sense as he mumbled, "Like a cat—fast." Sara was the only one who had seen how swiftly Lance Delridge moved as insanity drove his actions.

By the time Vartann had been maneuvered to the elevator, Nick and Greg had arrived. Jim Brass hovered over Sara as she related what Delridge had said while in his office.

"Catherine is going with Vartann," Greg announced. He looked around the rooftop. "You two couldn't handle this by yourselves—had to get us out here to help? Moonlight—the Strip in the distance—very private—quiet—kinda romantic, if you ask me." His voice filled with laughter as Grissom and Sara shot him the same annoyed grimace.

The note Sara had found helped to explain the downward spiral of Delridge. Chauncey Hilton had threatened blackmail; Delridge had not known of her secret recordings until he had seen the video during questioning. The edge of sanity he had managed to maintain had crumbled as he left the interview room.

It took some time to collect and bag all the clothing from Delridge's office; as they worked, Sara became aware of a change in the men working around her. As soon as she reached for a collection bag, someone held it for her. When she bent to pick up her case, one of the policemen jumped to assist her. Grissom showed up with a sandwich and somehow she ended up sitting in one of the modernist cube chairs near the window eating and watching as everyone else gathered boxes and envelopes.

She had worked puzzles long enough to figure out what had happened—someone had announced her pregnancy in the middle of this investigation.

**_A/N: Thanks so much for reading-love your comments! May be a couple of days before the next chapter; the story will be 25 chapters and finished by the end of next week. Thanks again!_**


	23. Chapter 23

**Being Here Chapter 23**

With the death of Delridge, the focus changed—no longer a race to find a killer, it became a search for the victim's family. After statements were taken from everyone who had been in the building, after Delridge had been delivered to the morgue, after a brief visit to the hospital to check on Vartann, Sara and Grissom walked into their house to find Hank waiting.

"I'll walk if you fix food," Sara offered.

"No," Grissom said as he lifted the dog's leash from its hook. "We'll both go." He turned to her and captured her face in his hands. "I left you alone once today and put you at risk—so we'll both walk Hank." He kissed her gently and with surprising intensity before releasing his hold. "Quickly—I promise a longer walk later; right now I'm exhausted."

But pleasant weather, a slow walk, and a long talk seemed to relieve some of their fatigue. By the time they returned, both had found humor when talking about Heather and Nicola. Grissom had sent an early morning text message to Heather that Delridge was dead.

"What will happen now?" Sara asked.

Grissom knew she meant Nicola. He shook his head and grinned. "Nicola will be fine. She and Heather have a lot in common—they will figure that out pretty quickly."

Food came next. Grissom insisted Sara shower while he prepared sandwiches and when she stepped out of the steamy bathroom, he had a food-loaded tray sitting on the bed.

"Ahhh—thanks," she said as she dived into a sandwich of cheese, tomatoes, avocado, and sprouts, a cup of thick, tart yogurt, and a cluster of grapes.

Grissom kissed her forehead saying "Save some for me," as he headed to the shower.

Later, with food gone and room darkened, Hank was welcomed into the bedroom as Sara sat in bed with Grissom's head resting in her lap. Her fingers combed through his damp hair as they talked about the chaotic events of the night.

"He was…unhinged," Sara said. "He kept slipping in and out of reality when he was shouting. But he must have known he was trapped."

"Finding you there—you know Greg found blood on a pair of his shoes—and knowing we were searching his office must have pushed his panic and disorientation to the extreme. Vartann said he flew at him in such a rage—all he remembers is going over that air conditioning unit."

"He moved fast after the gunshot—getting out the door."

Grissom's head lay snug against Sara's abdomen as they talked and suddenly his eyes widened. "What's that?"

Sara laughed quietly. "I think that's little Gilbert, making his presence known. I've felt him moving around when I'm quiet—kinda weird if I think about it."

He lifted his head, placing his hand over her belly. He grinned spreading his palm and fingers across the very small bulge of her abdomen as his wife smiled.

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_Nick and Greg returned to the lab with boxes of collected evidence_. With the death of Delridge, they were looking for Chauncey Hilton—hoping to locate a family for closure. After several hours of searching missing person's reports they had nothing.

"I'll bet she changed her name," Greg said as he scrolled through a dozen faces. "Chauncey—you ever known anyone by that name?"

"Don't believe I have," Nick said with a yawn. "But there's a lot of names out there, Greggo!" He stretched and yawned again. "I got to get some shut-eye!" He chuckled. "Catherine told me what happened to Nicola." His statement caused Greg's eyes to leave the computer screen.

"What happened?"

Nick lowered his voice even though they were the only ones working in the room. "Grissom took her to Lady Heather's—Dr. Lady Heather now!"

Greg's mouth opened, closed, and opened again before he spoke: "I'd love to know the real story of Grissom and Heather—you don't think Grissom—you know—did anything? I don't see Grissom being kinky enough to go all out—really get involved." He shrugged. "But you never know!"

Nick leaned across the table, his voice hushed. "Hodges pretends he knows something—hell, I wouldn't trust him for the correct time—but Jim says Grissom spent a lot of time with Heather on several occasions. But it was all 'book learning'—according to Jim and I don't know how he knows any more than we do!"

"You ever asked Sara?"

Nick's eyebrows lifted, his eyes widened. "No way—I'm not about to ask Mrs. Sara Sidle Grissom about Dr. Heather Kessler!" Nick's chuckle became a snicker. "She'd kill us and never look back!"

The two men laughed as they closed their current search and headed out of the building.

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"_I'll leave now that he's dead,"_ Nicola said after Heather had relayed the news of Delridge's death. Nicola had slept better than she had in months in the massive antique bed and dreaded the thought of seeking another place to live.

"Do you have a place to go?"

Nicola shrugged. "The girls I work with will put me up—someone will have a room to share and I can help with the rent."

Heather recognized worry had returned to the girl's eyes; she asked "What about your plans?" and before Nicola could answer, Heather continued, "You can stay here—I've plenty of room." She smiled. "And if we work on that business plan, I think you might be running your hair salon in Atlanta by the fall."

As the two women ate together, Heather told Nicola enough of her history to establish a common background. Both had followed what appeared to be "gold" from a childhood that was anything but happy. Heather had arrived in Vegas with her father who had died within the year of liver failure due to alcoholism. She had met, fallen in love, and married a young man who had as many dreams as she did, and for almost a year, the two had worked, celebrated the romance and lust of youth, and just as quickly, fallen out of love and into hate.

"I left him before I knew I was pregnant—can you imagine anyone being so naïve?" Heather said with a smile when Nicola's mouth dropped open. Heather told an amusing story when, true was, the actual living had not been humorous. She found other waitresses to share an apartment, and when rent money went to an obstetrician, they let her stay, even helping with her baby.

"When I had Zoe, my roommates said I needed to be on birth control—I insisted there was no need as I did not plan to ever have sex again!" Her laughter made Nicola giggle.

Heather continued. She found she had the ability to get people to like her and in doing so, co-workers would do what she asked, customers left nice tips and returned. She had a nose for business, the restaurant owner said, as he took her suggestions for improving food and service and he made money.

"I stayed for three years and saved nothing! One day, I dressed up and went to the casinos and applied for any job that was open. Some guy liked my looks—my size fit the outfits, I think—and hired me the next day."

Nicola giggled, "I think that's how I got hired!"

Heather's laughter affirmed their mutual amusement. "I was there two years when my benefactor walked in—and he was a wonderful, kind gentleman—not like your Lance." She passed more food to Nicola. "He set me up in a small house not unlike the place you had. He paid for me to go to college, bought things for my daughter—I think he actually loved her. Short story—he introduced me to things I had never heard of, things I had never done, or seen or experienced—and when he died he left me a bit of money and a house—much to the chagrin of his family."

The large round eyes on Nicola's face caused Heather to laugh again. "We've seen it all, Nicola. My rich old man kept me in style but he couldn't get it up unless I went down—it was a good way not to have babies! He had a will that included me in it and his children—adults who did not help their parents very much—raised a fuss until I showed them some photographs. He really was a wonderful man."

Nicola recognized admiration and love in Heather's words; puzzled, Nicola asked "Was he married? Is that why you didn't get married?"

Heather nodded. "He was married. Had the same wife for over fifty years—but she had severe dementia for nearly twenty years. When he found me, I was not quite twenty-four years old, had a child, and little to show for hard work and long hours except a pretty face. When he died, I was twenty-nine with money in the bank and investments in the stock market, a thriving business, and this house." She rested her fork against the plate. "We've got a lot in common, Nicola. I want to see you succeed and, while I don't plan on dying to leave you money, I could arrange a loan."

Heather did not divulge everything; it would have seemed arrogant to Nicola and Heather seldom revealed the complete truth of how she had gone from high school dropout and single parent to a doctoral degree with a respectable practice as a psychologist and what occurred in the years between. She had been successfully hiding how destitute she was when a tall, older man approached her one night and asked if he could take her to dinner when she got off work. When she said yes, he had appeared relieved, retreated to a dark table, and waited, spending money on drinks he did not consume, until she punched the time clock.

And he took her to dinner that night and for so many nights afterwards that her friends called him "Sugar Dinner"; and he never asked for anything other than what she wanted to eat. She learned his wife had Alzheimer's and he provided round-the-clock caregivers for her at their home. He met little Zoe one night when Heather was not working and after that meeting, he offered her a house. A month later, she had practically pulled him into the bedroom and induced him to make love to her. After that, either he was a master of the arts or had plenty of experience because she learned about seduction and passion, etiquette and culture, music and history, fine china and old cognac. And in the gentlest way imaginable, he introduced her to sexual control and power. A year later, he named her "his sixth angel" as she learned to command and dominate him in one of the rooms of a very large old house he had purchased, recording the deed in her name. She would not reveal the greatest source of her wealth—employing other women and a few men to entertain in a dominion of sexual gratification that came with physical pain. She did not explain her first meeting with Gil Grissom who appeared in her life—a reincarnation of her former lover. Only Grissom would never be her lover; he listened, he asked questions, he learned, but he was an enigma to her for years until he arrived unexpectedly one night and she learned how very much he loved one woman.

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"_Your son will look like you, Gil."_ Sara leaned against pillows and covered Grissom's hand with her own.

He pushed her shirt above her belly and kissed her right below her navel. "I love you, Sara," he said, "I'll love you and our son regardless of his looks." He grinned and looked upward. "A little boy the image of his mother…" He lifted himself to see a gleam in his wife's dark eyes just before he kissed her. Without much separation, he managed to lift covers for both to snuggle underneath.

"My mother left a message—she invited us to dinner," Grissom whispered as his arms wrapped around Sara.

"That's nice," Sara burrowed her body against his. His hands were kneading her back in a rhythm that created and stirred warm sensations around her hips and down her legs. "How tired are you?"

His hands moved to her shoulders and neck. "Sleep first, wife. We've had an extremely long and tiring shift." His feet playfully stoked hers. "Beside, Hank is well situated and snoring—it would be cruel to put him out of the bed."

A soft giggle sounded in his ear. "Later."

**_A/N: Thanks to all who are reading! and especially to all of you who send your comments, encouragement, and reviews! Two more chapters until this one concludes! _**


	24. Chapter 24

_**A/N: Here's the next one! Enjoy!**_

**Being Here Chapter 24**

Weeks went by with surprising swiftness as Sara's reduced work schedule was changed to twenty-four hours a week; department policy Catherine said as the two women sat across from each other. "Making it up as we go—but it's similar for pregnant female officers." Surprisingly, Sara didn't mind as much as she had thought she would. Catherine and Ecklie were very generous with her schedule, too, suggesting a few hours each day might work better than three-eight hour shifts. And she was assigned less field work and more paperwork—of course, she complained for several weeks, but then realized she was closing cases that had been open and cold for months.

One closed case was identifying Chauncey Hilton—or Ellen Hilton as she had been named by her parents in West Virginia. Her parents were more relieved than surprised to learn of the death of a daughter they had not heard from in nine years. While telling Sara their daughter had been smart and beautiful, she heard sadness with a strong sense of pride in their voices. They asked where Ellen was buried; "In the city's Memorial Gardens Cemetery" Sara said, not mentioning the pauper and unknown persons section where the city buried its poor. The mother said she would write that in the family Bible so if any relatives visited Las Vegas they could visit her grave. They did not ask; Sara did not expand on details of how their daughter died.

Sara did not even bother to argue when Grissom drove her to work each day with the promise of returning in a few hours. Any time she worked a crime scene, she was "under guard"; she grumbled, knowing everyone was taking extra precautions with the first pregnant employee in the lab in nine years—Catherine had looked it up. By the time her growing belly became obvious, everyone in the lab knew she was expecting a boy and her husband walked through the lab hearing expressions of congratulations like he was the king of the world; a perpetual grin remained on his face.

Gradually, she and Grissom prepared; their home office furniture was moved out and replaced with a baby's bed, a rocking chair, a small chest, and a bookcase. People brought her things—she insisted there would be no "baby shower" party before the birth of baby Grissom—so friends, co-workers, people she barely knew presented her with pastel wrapped gifts of gowns, sleepers, blankets, soft toys, and little shirts called 'oneies'.

She and Grissom went to birthing and infant care classes at the hospital—Sara commented on being the oldest mother in the classes. Grissom laughed and quickly became friends with new fathers half his age as they all seemed to share a considerable lack of knowledge or ability in figuring out a baby diaper. They also met with the priest at Betty's Catholic church where the priest knew a great deal about them and made plans for the baby's official baptism into the church of their youth.

Afterwards, Sara asked her husband, "Will you have your son raised a Catholic? Or anything else?"

"No, if he's spiritual bent, he'll find his own way to God. But we will not subject him to the prejudices, hypocrisies and non-science of any specific religion."

Sara laughed. "I think your mother has other ideas."

Grissom laughed, hugging her. "She can take him to mass and he'll do exactly what I did—look for spiders in the cobwebby corners!"

"I'll bet you were a cute alter boy."

He made a face before he kissed her.

As many men discover, Gil Grissom thought his pregnant wife extremely sexy and desirable—he always thought it—but as her belly grew, so did his desire.

"Nothing fits," Sara complained as she raked her hand over clothes hanging in her closet.

From his view, her butt fit perfectly in the bikini style panties she wore. "You look pretty delicious from my viewpoint." She turned so her silhouette of creamy skin contrasted against dark clothes. The image caused Grissom's eyes to close. His hand waved. "Come," he said, motioning for her to return to the bed.

"We need to shop—groceries," she said with a frown. "We've put it off until there is no more food—no milk, no fruit. I don't think we have bread in this house." She did leave the closet wearing nothing but her bra and panties. "And I really do need to buy pants that will go around little growing Gilbert!"

"Wear nothing—I'll go shopping. And my mother is coming for dinner—bringing it with her. We don't have to cook." He pulled her onto the bed.

"I have to wear something!" She giggled as he managed to roll her beside him. She had seen the bulge in his pants and the gentle touch of his fingers did not come as a surprise.

"You can wear the cute dress you had on yesterday—no pants involved." The sound of his laughter was one of sexy expectation. "And no panties—easy access," he growled. He buried his face between her breasts. "I love these," he mumbled. "I love your butt and your belly." His hands cradled her bottom. His lips moved upward. "I love your neck—and your lips." Fingers slipped along the cleft separating her butt reaching her damp center. He stroked her while her hands played in his hair.

"You are hopeless…"

"No, horny. All the time. It's a very hard situation to be in."

Sara giggled with obvious happiness. She had not thought they could have more sex than they had prior to pregnancy. She had been proven wrong. She had also been surprised by his increased desire which had led to her own passionate feelings increasing as her pregnancy continued. When she mentioned this to her physician, she had gotten a delighted response. "Enjoy this time, Sara. It may prevent pre-eclampsia—there is research that indicates a connection! And a new baby tends to decrease desire for a while."

So, the two continued a frequent, satisfying, intensely enjoyable sex life—with a few modifications as the weeks of pregnancy passed.

Today, Grissom placed palms beneath her butt, lifted and centered her, then lowered her slowly onto the length of his erection. When she closed on him like a tight fist on a doorknob, he moved hands to his thighs and began a slow rhythmic movement with his hips.

Sara felt her lower body tighten at his touch and moved against him, clenching, moving with his thrusts. And then, minutes after he had penetrated her, she felt her orgasm build, swell, and surge from her brain to her toes. She gasped, gave a soft cry as waves of pleasure flooded her body. Grissom held her upright until his own climax slammed his brain and body against the sheets; releasing his hold, she collapsed and rolled to his side as one arm circled her body and his hand came to rest on the growing bump of her belly.

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"_How does it feel?" Greg asked as he sat across the table_ and watched as Sara went through files, checking contents against a checklist.

She looked up. "How does what feel?"

Greg made a motion with his head, "Your shirt is moving. A baby—how does it feel to be pregnant?"

Sara laughed. "Nothing a man will ever know! Have you ever felt a baby move?" She knew his answer and rolled her chair to his side of the table. "Let me have your hand." She placed his hand on one side of her belly. His eyebrows lifted; his eyes widened. "That's his foot—should be a great soccer player cause he kicks all the time." Greg's hand remained against her basketball size abdomen for several minutes.

He grinned. "That's something—it's odd, isn't it."

She nodded. "Weird—especially at first. Now, not so much." She laughed. "I think he's ready—I know I'm ready—I think I'm ready."

"You'll be a great mom, Sara."

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_Betty Grissom decided she loved her daughter-in-law _and it wasn't just because Sara was making her a grandmother. Their somewhat formal relationship had melted following the trip to the Grand Canyon and now they took occasional shopping trips together, ate together on a regular basis, and, best of all, Sara and Grissom had agreed to baptism for her grandson. The dress had been cleaned and hung in the baby's room along with the gowns her son had worn as an infant.

Her phone flashed with a message: "Arriving now" she read. They were going to dinner. When Sara got out of the front seat—even after Betty protested—to let the older woman sit in front, Betty thought she had never seen a pregnant woman more lovely than Sara.

The dress was new—a burgundy silky fabric with a lower neckline than usual for Sara. Or, Betty thought, her breasts were bigger in late pregnancy. She wore an unusual pendant around her neck; Betty was sure it was an antique jet-studded necklace and wondered where Gil had found something so unique. The dress draped in soft folds over Sara's round belly—Betty signed: "You look beautiful."

The restaurant was a favorite; the waiter knew them by name and presented a vegetarian menu to the group. They ordered salads of tropical fruits served in a yogurt cloud, spinach soufflés and crunchy Portobello mushrooms, roasted carrots, Brussels sprouts and brown rice. Nearly two hours later, they were looking over the dessert menu when a shadow fell across Grissom's hands. He looked up, then quickly stood.

"Heather!" Grissom extended his hand; Heather's hand went to his shoulder, and, in an awkward moment, as the two miscalculated intended greetings, they froze before Grissom laughed and they both hugged. Sara was standing by the time they parted.

"You look wonderful!" Heather said in her soft throaty voice as she and Sara touched hands to elbows in a more subdued greeting than the one between Heather and Grissom had been.

Curiously, Betty watched the exchange between the three. Gil's friend, she thought—an acquaintance to Sara. The three spoke rapidly—she did not try to keep up by lip reading—but it was Sara who turned to her mother-in-law. She signed: "Betty, this is Dr. Heather Kessler," and said the words to the newcomer who extended her hand. Beautiful woman, Betty thought as they shook hands. Quizzically, Betty looked at Sara as Gil spoke to Heather. Sara signed: "Heather has helped the lab with several cases."

The entire exchange of greetings, introductions, and questions of due date lasted three or four minutes before Heather left the table. Betty's watchful eyes had scrutinized her son's response to this unknown woman—not an old lover, she was sure of that, something else. At another time she would find out who this exotic woman was. And when Dr. Heather Kessler left the table, she seemed to be forgotten as Gil turned his attention to the two women at the table and the dessert menu.

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_Two nights later, Grissom woke when Sara crawled out of bed_ and headed to the bathroom. "Indigestion," she murmured as she went in search of an anti-acid. He followed.

He caught up with her as she opened a bottle and began to massage her shoulders. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah—sauce I ate for dinner." She popped a tablet in her mouth and chewed. As Grissom's hands moved across her back, a sudden, unexpected pain jolted her upright, her eyes met Grissom's in the mirror. "Not indigestion, Gil."

He looked as startled as she did. "Two weeks—due date is two weeks away! Are you sure?"

The wetness between her legs made her sure. "Yeah," she pointed.

For a first pregnancy, Sara progressed rapidly from labor to delivery and four hours and ten minutes after arriving at the hospital, a healthy eight pound baby was delivered. Grissom remained beside his wife as she breathed and pushed and rested until the red-faced little boy made his appearance. Everyone in the room was smiling as the new father cut the umbilical cord, and like most new mothers, Sara said, "He's so beautiful!" as she examined fingers and toes, perfectly unblemished skin and the smallest blonde curls she had ever seen. Then, a smile breaking across her face, she added something most new mothers do not say immediately, "I've got to have another one!"

Another hour passed before Sara thought to ask if Grissom had called his mother. A look of alarm crossed his face. "I forgot—I forgot to call anyone! We got so busy—no one knows!"

**_A/N: One more chapter-thanks for all the reviews. We really do appreciate hearing from everyone!_**


	25. Chapter 25

_**A/N:** Here's the last chapter for this story. Hope everyone enjoys the "different" view we put on this chapter!_

**Being Here Chapter 25**

_During prenatal growth, a baby learns about everything around him or her—almost from the beginning. And right before birth, an angel presses a delicate finger on a baby's lips to seal all the knowledge absorbed during the previous nine months. That's how humans get the philtral dimple. Sometimes, the angel forgets or admires the baby too long or lets the finger slip just a bit, and the baby is born with intelligence that far exceeds that of others! So it happened in the case of the new Grissom baby; the angel was in such awe of the perfection of the infant, his finger slipped—not quite erasing that knowledge and causing a small cleft in the chin. Quickly, the birth angel looked around, realized delivery was swiftly approaching, recognized this baby's father also had the same kind of chin dimple and knew everything would be fine…_

_**Day One**_: I got here! One would think it had taken me years and years on a slow ship from outer space by all the uproar and hullabaloo going on around me! I was peacefully enjoying my mom's warm chest when my dad jumped up and started punching his phone. He said a few bad words because he had forgotten to call anyone about my arrival but his forgetfulness was quickly forgiven when he talked to his friends.

It is surprising how much I already know from just a few months of growing in the nice warm fluid-filled sea inside my mom. I heard voices and followed conversations, smelled food, even tasted some of it, and learned lots of words and understood some actions. So by the time my birth day came, like most babies, I had collected lots of information and developed a growing intelligence that would surprise most people. As I grow I will forget a lot of what I learned in the first nine months as my brain and body gets so busy growing, seeing new things, hearing new sounds, learning to crawl, tasting food, playing with toys, remembering names and learning to talk. It is a tremendous amount of work for one little person to accomplish!

In the past few months, I've listened to everything around me so I'll recognize voices as well as know some people from the way my mom reacts to them. I know Sara is my mother; I know her voice, her smell, her laugh, and I'm learning how to look at her. I know she provides me with warmth and food and all I have to do is make a tiny sound and she has me cuddled against her chest. So far this is a good life, even if it's a little bright out here.

My dad is around us constantly—I knew him the instant my eyes were wiped. His voice was easy to recognize because he has stayed so close to us while I was inside Mom. He's a pretty funny guy, I think. He is always kissing Mom. He will start to speak, stop, and kiss her. And he kisses me almost as much! He even changed my wet, poopy diaper and laughed about it. He bragged about my "equipment" when he changed me, whatever that means, but he sounded very proud. His smell is different from Mom's—his hands feel different too but I am very secure as he carries me—it is something I know. But right now I prefer Mom. And he has this scratchy stubble on his chin that tickles when he holds me near his face. Mom doesn't have that—she's all smooth and soft and milky. They are both funny—I'm not quite ready to make a smiley face at them but when I do, I know I'll see smiles and hear them brag about how cute I am. When Dad unwrapped my blanket, my mom had to wipe tears from her eyes because I am so perfect—her words, not mine! And she loves my hair—her soft slim finger lifts a curl and she smiles again. And she was singing to me earlier when Betty came in.

Betty is my grandmother and I can't hear her because she doesn't talk. I have felt her hands on mommy's tummy before I was born and today she got to hold me while Mom rested. I went to sleep on Betty—my dad said I should call her Nana. She seemed to be pretty happy I've arrived from how much she was smiling and how her hands touched me and she can make noises—she babbled funny little sounds when she held me.

This has been an exciting day and I'm tired. So is Mommy—she wants to sleep now. I want to sleep too, and someone—Dad—keeps moving me to the hard little bed when I want to stay right next to Mom so I can wiggle my mouth a bit and find her. I think I'll make some noise and get back to her. Yep, that worked just as I thought—back to Mom and snuggling against her mounds of milk—I can sleep now.

_**Day Two**_: I thought my first day was noisy and busy but it was nothing compared to today! First, this machine came in and a strange woman put some wires on me. Testing my hearing, she said, and Mom and Dad were so concerned. I can hear just fine, thank you. Even hear my dad snoring—I've heard that sound for months now. Everyone was pleased about my ability to hear. I know a secret—my good hearing comes from my mother, not my dad, but they won't figure that out for several years.

Then a crowd descended on us! First it was Catherine and Jim—I am so happy to put faces with voices—they brought the softest blue blanket for me and flowers for Mom. The blanket has little bumblebees all over it and everyone thought it was perfect for me. My mom and Catherine were making so many nonsense noises over me that Dad finally came to my rescue, so I decided to smile! That really brought on more commotion—Catherine said it was gas. One day I'm going to tell her it was not gas. Jim and Dad carried on another conversation near the window and I know Dad was bragging about equipment again. I've got to figure that one out—it's not that hard little bed, but something about me!

After Catherine and Jim left, Greg and Nick came in. I'd know them anywhere. I have heard them laughing and telling Mom what we are going to do—lots of fun from what I gather. They are going to be my godfathers—that means they take me places and we play together. Nick held me right away—he said he had lots of practice and I could tell. He held my head in his palm and let my legs dangle, even changed my diaper and did a real Texan yell when the diaper came off. My dad was standing by, hands in his pockets, his chest swelled, a big grin on his face. And then I knew—equipment meant my little penis! Even Greg came to look and the three men grinned like they had discovered sunshine! Now, they had a whispered conversation about something and I did not recognize all the words, but Mom very clearly said "He will look like his daddy" which caused them to throw back their heads and laugh a lot.

That was the good part of the day—not the best part—that's when my mom holds me and I get to suck. I could do that forever, listening to her calm voice and feeling her hand on my head. A woman came in to show her how to feed me; she didn't need any teaching—we got it right the first time! Now I know why my dad likes to stay around us. He likes the same kind of cuddling!

The bad part happened when a doctor came in; not the same one who caught me when I slipped out of Mom. This one was very serious when he talked about circumcision. I had no idea—but Mom said I was to look like Dad so off we went to another room and I was unwrapped—not something I like because it makes me cool. I prefer warm. The doctor gets busy putting cream on my penis—my equipment as Dad calls it. Mom and Dad are near because I can hear them talking. Dad sounds concerned about something and Mom seems to be comforting him. I make a noise and she's right beside me, covers me up and keeps her hand on my head. The doctor returns with his face covered, mumbling words I can not understand, lifts the blanket, and quick as a flash of light, I hear Dad suck in his breath. Mom's hand stays on my head and she takes my waving hand in her warm hand. The doctor says "That's done—he'll be fine" and I'm wrapped up again. Mom picks me up—I love the way she smells, have I said that already? Before we get back to our room, I am yawning and ready to sleep and Dad says "He's a little trooper"—whatever that means.

_**Day Ten**__: _Whew! We have had to do some learning! Hank and I are the only ones getting much sleep in this house. Nana stayed several nights with us and she comes every day to hold and rock me while Mom and Dad take a shower or nap. She cooks sometimes and it really smells good. But all I want to do is suck what my mom makes which really makes her tired. We had a go-round with the bed they want to put me in. First, it is hard and I much prefer fluffy and soft. Second, for months I have been curled up in this warm place and now they want me to sleep on my back. I showed them—I screamed and screamed. I can make some noise when I want to and get everyone's attention. Now, I am sleeping on top of Mom which is the perfect place—soft, warm, smells good. And anyone who says I am spoiled gets a nasty look from Mommy. One day Jim came by and he laughed when he held me and I went to sleep—he's pretty soft too. Mom says he is my granddad, but I have to figure this out—I know he's not her dad, certainly not married to Nana. And he said I could call him anything I wanted except Butthead. Everyone laughed when he said that.

Greg and Nick have visited several times. I am going to like having them around, especially now that Greg has held me and he is not quite so nervous. They talked about football and baseball and cars in a way I know I'm going to love. My dad watches baseball when he sits on the sofa, but they talked about going to a game. I kinda like the sound of that.

Today, we rode in the car to church—I know this because I saw angel statues. This was a special day it seems. Dad gave Mom a ring to wear and she cried about it. It was one that belonged to his grandmother. He said he should have given it to her a long time ago, but he decided to save it for a very special occasion. Nana was there and helped Mom dress me in yards and yards of white stuff. They made a big to-do, took a lot of photos, and Catherine came. Those women may be the death of me at a young age with all the clucking and cooing going on especially when I smile. Then the men came—I was very happy to see them and gave a big smile, did some gurgling, more smiles, and for all my enthusiasm, a stranger poured water on my head! Now, Mom has done this at home, but I was taken by surprise and let out a yelp which caused a buzz of excitement for a few minutes. More photographs were taken, everyone shook hands and hugged and I finally got back to Mommy. By this time I was hungry and let everyone know it.

That's when I realized it wasn't just Mom and Dad, Nana and Catherine, and the guys, but a lot of people crowded around us. We eventually got to a place where there was lots of food and people left me and Mom alone so I could get a long delicious snack from her. Nothing will ever taste this good, I am positive!

_**Six weeks**_: It has been a long time since I came out of my mom and we are getting along so well. I eat and sleep; I sit in a little bouncy seat and watch as Mom does things. She watches me; Dad watches us. Finally, they are letting me sleep between them. I pretend to go to sleep real quick and then wake up when one of them tries to move me to that lonely bed; after two or three trips, they let me sleep with them. I much prefer sleeping between them.

From my point of view, Mom and Dad are doing a good job as parents. They stay awake when I am awake and when I get fussy, Dad will walk me around the house. I am not very cranky; everyone says I am an easy baby—I think that's a compliment. Oh, Hank and I are going to be good friends; he will stick his wet nose on my leg and I try to laugh. I can not wait until I can be on the floor with him!

Nana comes nearly every day. She rocks and I sleep. Mom will sleep too. Nana thinks I look like Dad. That's a good thing because he looks very handsome to me. Greg and Nick look good too, but I think it is better to look like my daddy. I learned Nana is deaf—that's why she uses her hands to talk. And why everyone was so concerned about my hearing. But Nana doesn't have to talk to me. I know she is happy by the way lines form around her mouth when she holds me; she makes me happy and I will smile at her as much as I can. Only sometimes my thoughts get crossed and I frown or make a funny face; that's when Mom says I look just like Gil Grissom—that is Dad's other name.

_**Six months**_: I am learning a lot of new things which means I am forgetting some of the stuff I knew when I was born. I'm in my own bed now. Once I rolled over a few times and started spreading my arms and legs on the bed like Dad sleeps, my mom said it was time for me to sleep in my own bed. And she meant it. I tried crying; I tried being cute; I tried pouting—nothing worked. So I sleep in my bed without complaining too much. Tonight, Mom and Dad were having a serious discussion above my crib—talking about "another one". I am not sure what that means, but I am hearing sounds from their bed that makes me think they are not sleeping. I think they are loving each other. They did that a lot while I was growing inside Mom and tonight, I think Dad is loving Mom in a big way. Mom smelled very nice when she tucked me in bed; Dad gave me Glow-worm to keep in bed with me. They were smiling in a different way and kissing each other right over my bed! Hey! I wanted to yell—don't forget about me! I want in on the fun—I can remember a few times they were loving each other before I was born. I would turn somersaults and sometimes, I would let all the rocking to and fro put me to sleep. Either way, I enjoyed this thing called love so I'm going to make noise and get their attention. I'm sure they want me to join them!

_**Nine months**_: I am crawling and pulling up, riding my scoot-around bumblebee, saying lots of words which make sense to me but I get puzzled looks from my friends when I'm telling them about a bug or one of my books. One day I pointed to a bug and said the word. It made my dad so happy that I called everything a bug for a few days. My best friend is Hank who understands everything I say and lets me play all over him. He makes a little huffing sound and puts his head down when I giggle. My dad is also my best friend because he takes me for stroller rides and he thinks it is just fine when I crawl in the dirt and grass. We play a lot of games and I get so tickled when he hides behind my blanket. It causes my mommy to laugh and laugh and then she kisses both of us.

Lately, Mommy hasn't felt so good. For one thing, I am drinking from a bottle now—and I still miss getting good milk from her. She doesn't smell milky any longer but she still holds me very tight when she gives me a bottle. She talks to me all the time, saying how long she waited for me to arrive, how sweet I am, and lots of stories about going to places called Costa Rica and Paris and how we will go there one day. She is the most beautiful woman in the world—even when she had to sit me on the floor so she could throw up—morning sickness, that's what she called it.

Nana and Baba visit often—Baba is Jim Brass. My dad calls him Jim but Nick and Greg call him Brass, so I want to be like my best buddies. That's how he came to be Baba—I could not make my tongue work to say Brass. All of my friends think I am very advanced because I can say so many words. Little do they know how much I really understand! Today when Nana was here, Mom and Dad said there was another one coming. At first I thought it was another friend, but now I know another baby is coming—Mommy says I will always be her first baby! Mommy also says this one is a sister for me because I never made her sick. Dad suggested a girl's name and Nana and Mommy gave him a nasty look. "Elizabeth" my mom said. My nana started to cry.

_**Sixteen months**_: My sister has arrived. Her name is Elizabeth Laura Grissom. I have peeked into the little bed when my dad held me up and she looks pretty for a new baby—she has dark hair and everyone says she looks like Mom. She looked at me when I said "baby" and I am pretty certain she understands I am the boss in this house. Mom has the milky smell again—it does not smell quite as good as I remember it but baby Beth seems to like it. Nana, Catherine—I call her Cay right now—and Mommy spend a lot of time rocking and talking about my sister; myself, I'm off to play. Dad and Baba, Nick and Greg are working on a fort in the back yard. I like this new house we live in too. Lots of room for Hank and me, even baby Beth, to play and run and make noise.

I stand at the door and look at Mom and then at Dad who is outside. My mom and dad smile all the time. They are really happy about everything—especially me and my sister. Oh, before I forget, I'm Byron Gilbert Grissom—named after my dad and an old poet who wrote a lot of rhymes and sonnets that my dad reads to my mom. He says Lord Byron wrote his favorite poem about Mommy and I know she believes it when he reads: _She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies_…

**The End **

_A/N: This is our 49th CSI fanfic story. Thank you to all readers-regular and occasional ones-to you we owe a great, sincere thanks. We will let you decide if we write a 50th story-and it may be weeks before we complete it-so review, let us know what you think about the way we ended this one! Hope it made you smile, even laugh! It was actually written first! Reviews are the only way we know if you enjoy reading our work._


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